SURLY  TIM  AND   OTHER 
STORIES. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

THAT   LASS   O-  LOWRIE'S. 

One  "volume,  I2mo. 

Cloth,  with  Illustrations $1.50. 

Popular  Edition,  paper  covers 90. 


SURLY  TIM 


AND   OTHER   STORIES 


BY 


FRANCES    HODGSON   BURNETT 


NEW   YORK 
SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG,  &  CO. 

1877 

[All  rights  reserved] 


COPYRIGHT,  1877, 
By  SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG,  &  Co. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE  .' 

STEREOTYPED      AND      PRINTED      BY 
H.    O      HOUGHTON    AND    COMPANY. 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE. 


IN  this  little  volume  have  been  brought 
together  those  of  my  short  stories  which 
have  been  thought  most  worthy  of  preserva 
tion  in  the  present  form.  All  these  stories 
first  appeared  in  Scribner's  Monthly,  except 
"  Seth,"  which  was  published  in  Lippincott's 
Magazine. 

The  author  begs  to  say  to  her  readers,  that 
"That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's  "  and  the  present  vol 
ume  are  the  only  works  issued  under  her  name 
which  have  been  prepared  and  corrected  for 
publication  in  book  form  under  her  personal 
supervision. 

F.  H.  B. 

September  14,  1877. 


M2G9184 


CONTENTS. 


"  SURLY  TIM."    A  LANCASHIRE  STORY 
"LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME"  . 

SMETHURSTSES 

ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE 

ESMERALDA     

MERE  GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER 

LODUSKY         

"  SETH  " 


PAGE 

I 

26 

70 

104 

124 

162 

1 88 
237 


"SURLY    TIM." 

A    LANCASHIRE    STORY. 


ORRY  to  hear  my  fellow-workmen  speak  so 
disparagin'  o'  me  ?  Well,  Mester,  that's  as 
it  may  be  yo'  know.  Happen  my  fellow-workmen 
ha'  made  a  bit  o'  a  mistake  —  happen  what  seems 
loike  crustiness  to  them  beant  so  much  crustiness 
as  summat  else  —  happen  I  mought  do  my  bit  o' 
complainin'  too.  Yo'  munnot  trust  aw  yo'  hear, 
Mester ;  that's  aw  I  can  say." 

I  looked  at  the  man's  bent  face  quite  curiously, 
and,  judging  from  its  rather  heavy  but  still  not  un 
prepossessing  outline,  I  could  not  really  call  it  a  bad 
face,  or  even  a  sulky  one.  And  yet  both  managers 
and  hands  had  given  me  a  bad  account  of  Tim 
Hibblethwaite.  "  Surly  Tim,"  they  called  him,  and 
each  had  something  to  say  about  his  sullen  disposi 
tion  to  silence,  and  his  short  answers.  Not  that 
he  was  accused  of  anything  like  misdemeanor,  but 
he  was  "glum  loike,"  the  factory  people  said,  and 


2  "SURLY   TIM.n 

"a  surly  fellow  well  deserving  his  name,"  as  the 
master  of  his  room  had  told  me. 

I  had  come  to  Lancashire  to  take  the  control  of 
my  father's  spinning-factory  a  short  time  before, 
being  anxious  to  do  my  best  toward  the  hands,  and, 
I  often  talked  to  one  and  another  in  a  friendly  way, 
so  that  I  could  the  better  understand  their  griev 
ances  and  remedy  them  with  justice  to  all  parties 
concerned.  So  in  conversing  with  men,  women, 
and  children,  I  gradually  found  out  that  Tim  Hib- 
blethwaite  was  in  bad  odor,  and  that  he  held  himself 
doggedly  aloof  from  all ;  and  this  was  how,  in  the 
course  of  time,  I  came  to  speak  to  him  about  the 
matter,  and  the  opening  words  of  my  story  are  the 
words  of  his  answer.  But  they  did  not  satisfy  me 
by  any  means.  I  wanted  to  do  the  man  justice 
myself,  and  see  that  justice  was  done  to  him  by 
others;  and  then  again  when,  after  my  curious 
look  at  him,  he  lifted  his  head  from  his  work  and 
drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  warm  face,  I 
noticed  that  he  gave  his  eyes  a  brush,  and,  glanc 
ing  at  him  once  more,  I  recognized  the  presence  of 
a  moisture  in  them. 

In  my  anxiety  to  conceal  that  I  had  noticed  any 
thing  unusual,  I  am  afraid  I  spoke  to  him  quite 
hurriedly.  I  was  a  young  man  then,  and  by  no 
means  as  self-possessed  as  I  ought  to  have  been. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  misunderstand  me,  Hibble- 
thwaite,"  I  said;  "I  don't  mean  to  complain  —  in 
deed,  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of,  for  Foxley 


"SURLY  TIM:1  3 

tells  me  you  are  the  steadiest  and  most  orderly 
hand  he  has  under  him  •  but  the  fact  is,  I  should 
like  to  make  friends  with  you  all,  and  see  that  no 
one  is  treated  badly.  And  somehow  or  other  I 
found  out  that  you  were  not  disposed  to  feel 
friendly  towards  the  rest,  and  I  was  sorry  for  it. 
But  I  suppose  you  have  some  reason  of  your 
own." 

The  man  bent  down  over  his  work  again,  silent 
for  a  minute,  to  my  discomfiture,  but  at  last  he 
spoke,  almost  huskily. 

"Thank  yo',  Hester,"  he  said;  "yo're  a  koindly 
chap  or  yo'  wouldn't  ha'  noticed.  An'  yo're  not 
fur  wrong  either.  I  ha'  reasons  o'  my  own,  tho' 
I'm  loike  to  keep  'em  to  mysen  most  o'  toimes. 
Th'  fellows  as  throws  their  slurs  on  me  would  na 
understond  'em  if  I  were  loike  to  gab,  which  I 
never  were.  But  happen  th'  toime  '11  come  when 
Surly  Tim  '11  tell  his  own  tale,  though  I  often  think 
its  loike  it  wunnot  come  till  th'  Day  o'  Judgment." 

"  I  hope  it  will  come  before  then,"  I  said,  cheer 
fully.  "  I  hope  the  time  is  not  far  away  when  we 
shall  all  understand  you,  Hibblethwaite.  I  think 
it  has  been  misunderstanding  so  far  which  has 
separated  you  from  the  rest,  and  it  cannot  last  al 
ways,  you  know." 

But  he  shook  his  head  —  not  after  a  surly  fash 
ion,  but,  as  I  thought,  a  trifle  sadly  or  heavily  — 
so  I  did  not  ask  any  more  questions,  or  try  to 
force  the  subject  upon  him. 


TIM." 

But  I  noticed  him  pretty  closely  as  time  went  on, 
and  the  more  I  saw  of  him  the  more  fully  I  was 
convinced  that  he  was  not  so  surly  as  people  im 
agined.  He  never  interfered  with  the  most  active 
of  his  enemies,  nor  made  any  reply  when  they 
taunted  him,  and  more  than  once  I  saw  him  per 
form  a  silent,  half-secret  act  of  kindness.  Once  I 
caught  him  throwing  half  his  dinner  to  a  wretched 
little  lad  who  had  just  come  to  the  factory,  and 
worked  near  him  ;  and  once  again,  as  I  was  leav 
ing  the  building  on  a  rainy  night,  I  came  upon  him 
on  the  stone  steps  at  the  door  bending  down  with 
an  almost  pathetic  clumsiness  to  pin  the  woolen 
shawl  of  a  poor  little  mite,  who,  like  so  many  others, 
worked  with  her  shiftless  father  and  mother  to  add 
to  their  weekly  earnings.  It  was  always  the  poor 
est  and  least  cared  for  of  the  children  whom  he 
seemed  to  befriend,  and  very  often  I  noticed  that 
even  when  he  was  kindest,  in  his  awkward  man 
fashion,  the  little  waifs  were  afraid  of  him,  and 
showed  their  fear  plainly. 

The  factory  was  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
thriving  country  town  near  Manchester,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  lane  that  led  from  it  to  the  more  thickly 
populated  part  there  was  a  path  crossing  a  field  to 
the  pretty  church  and  church-yard,  and  this  path 
was  a  short  cut  homeward  for  me.  Being  so  pretty 
and  quiet,  the  place  had  a  sort  of  attraction  for 
me,  and  I  was  in  the  habit  of  frequently  passing 
through  it  on  my  way,  partly  because  it  was  pretty 


"SURLY  TIM."  5 

and  quiet,  perhaps,  and  partly,  I  have  no  doubt, 
because  I  was  inclined  to  be  weak  and  melancholy 
at  the  time,  my  health  being  broken  down  under 
hard  study. 

It  so  happened  that  in  passing  here  one  night, 
and  glancing  in  among  the  graves  and  marble 
monuments  as  usual,  I  caught  sight  of  a  dark 
figure  sitting  upon  a  little  mound  under  a  tree  and 
resting  its  head  upon  its  hands,  and  in  this  sad- 
looking  figure  I  recognized  the  muscular  outline  of 
my  friend  Surly  Tim. 

He  did  not  see  me  at  first,  and  I  was  almost  in 
clined  to  think  it  best  to  leave  him  alone  ;  but  as  I 
half  turned  away  he  stirred  with  something  like  a 
faint  moan,  and  then  lifted  his  head  and  saw  me 
standing  in  the  bright,  clear  moonlight. 

"  Who's  theer  ?  "  he  said.  "  Dost  ta  want 
owt  ?  " 

"  It  is  only  Doncaster,  Hibblethwaite,"  I  re 
turned,  as  I  sprang  over  the  low  stone  wall  to  join 
him.  "  What  is  the  matter,  old  fellow  ?  I  thought 
I  heard  you  groan  just  now." 

"  Yo'  mought  ha'  done,  Mester,"  he  answered 
heavily.  "  Happen  tha  did.  I  dunnot  know 
mysen.  Nowts  th'  matter  though,  as  I  knows  on, 
on'y  I'm  a  bit  out  o'  soarts." 

He  turned  his  head  aside  slightly  and  began  to 
pull  at  the  blades  of  grass  on  the  mound,  and  all 
at  once  I  saw  that  his  hand  was  trembling  nerv 
ously. 


6  "SURLY  TIM." 

It  was  almost  three  minutes  before  he  spoke 
again. 

"  That  un  belongs  to  me,"  he  said  suddenly  at 
last,  pointing  to  a  longer  mound  at  his  feet.  "  An' 
this  little  un,"  signifying  with  an  indescribable  gest 
ure  the  small  one  upon  which  he  sat. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  I  said,  "  I  see  now." 

"  A  little  lad  o'  mine,"  he  said,  slowly  and  trem 
ulously.  "  A  little  lad  o'  mine  an'  —  an'  his  mother.'' 

"  What !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  I  never  knew  that  you 
were  a  married  man,  Tim." 

He  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hand  again,  still 
pulling  nervously  at  the  grass  with  the  other. 

"Th'  law  says  I  beant,  Mester,"  he  answered  in 
a  painful,  strained  fashion.  "  I  conna  tell  mysen 
what  God-a'-moighty  'ud  say  about  it." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  I  faltered  j  "  you  don't 
mean  to  say  the  poor  girl  never  was  your  wife, 
Hibblethwaite." 

"That's  what  th'  law  says,"  slowly;  "I  thowt 
different  mysen,  an'  so  did  th'  poor  lass.  That's 
what's  the  matter,  Mester ;  that's  th'  trouble." 

The  other  nervous  hand  went  up  to  his  bent  face 
for  a  minute  and  hid  it,  but  I  did  not  speak.  There 
was  so  much  of  strange  grief  in  his  simple  move 
ment  that  I  felt  words  would  be  out  of  place.  It 
was  not  my  dogged,  inexplicable  "  hand  "  who  was 
sitting  before  me  in  the  bright  moonlight  on  the 
baby's  grave ;  it  was  a  man  with  a  hidden  history 
of  some  tragic  sorrow  long  kept  secret  in  his 


"SURLY 

homely  breast,  —  perhaps  a  history  very  few  of  us 
could  read  aright.  I  would  not  question  him, 
though  I  fancied  he  meant  to  explain  himself.  I 
knew  that  if  he  was  willing  to  tell  me  the  truth  it 
was  best  that  he  should  choose  his  own  time  for  it, 
and  so  I  let  him  alone. 

And  before  I  had  waited  very  long  he  broke  the 
silence  himself,  as  I  had  thought  he  would. 

"  It  wur  welly  about  six  year  ago  I  comn  here," 
he  said,  "  more  or  less,  welly  about  six  year.  I 
wur  a  quiet  chap  then,  Mester,  an'  had  na  many 
friends,  but  I  had  more  than  I  ha'  now.  Happen 
I  wur  better  nater'd,  but  just  as  loike  I  wur  loigh- 
ter-hearted  —  but  that's  nowt  to  do  wi'  it. 

"I  had  na  been  here  more  than  a  week  when 
theer  comes  a  young  woman  to  moind  a  loom  i'  th' 
next  room  to  me,  an'  this  young  woman  bein' 
pretty  an'  modest  takes  my  fancy.  She  wur  na 
loike  th'  rest  o'  the  wenches  —  loud  talkin'  an' 
slattern  i'  her  ways  ;  she  wur  just  quiet  loike  and 
nowt  else.  First  time  I  seed  her  I  says  to  mysen, 
*  Theer's  a  lass  'at's  seed  trouble  ; '  an'  somehow 
every  toime  I  seed  her  afterward  I  says  to  mysen, 
'  Theer's  a  lass  'at's  seed  trouble.'  It  wur  i'  her  eye 
—  she  had  a  soft  loike  brown  eye,  Mester  —  an'  it 
wur  i'  her  voice  —  her  voice  wur  soft  loike,  too  —  I 
sometimes  thowt  it  wur  plain  to  be  seed  even  i'  her 
dress.  If  she'd  been  born  a  lady  she'd  ha'  been 
one  o'  th'  foine  soart,  an'  as  she'd  been  born  a  fac- 


8  "SURLY  TIM:' 

tory-lass  she  wur  one  o'  th'  foine  soart  still.  So  I 
took  to  watchin'  her  an'  tryin'  to  mak'  friends  wi' 
her,  but  I  never  had  much  luck  wi'  her  till  one  neet 
I  was  goin'  home  through  th'  snow,  and  I  seed  her 
afore  lighten'  th'  drift  wi'  nowt  but  a  thin  shawl 
over  her  head  ;  so  I  goes  up  behind  her  an'  I  says 
to  her,  steady  and  respecful,  so  as  she  wouldna  be 
feart,  I  says  :  — 

"  *  Lass,  let  me  see  thee  home.  It's  bad  weather 
fur  thee  to  be  out  in  by  thysen.  Tak'  my  coat  an' 
wrop  thee  up  in  it,  an'  tak'  hold  o'  my  arm  an'  let 
me  help  thee  along.' 

"  She  looks  up  right  straightforrad  i'  my  face  wi' 
her  brown  eyes,  an'  I  tell  yo'  Mester,  I  wur  glad  I 
wur  a  honest  man  'stead  o'  a  rascal,  fur  them  quiet 
eyes  'ud  ha'  fun  me  out  afore  I'd  ha'  done  sayin' 
my  say  if  I'd  meant  harm. 

"  *  Thank  yo'  kindly  Mester  Hibblethwaite,'  she 
says,  '  but  dunnot  tak'  off  tha'  coat  fur  me  ;  I'm 
doin'  pretty  nicely.  It  is  Mester  Hibblethwaite, 
beant  it  ? ' 

"  *  Aye,  lass,'  I  answers,  '  it's  him.  Mought  I 
ax  yo're  name.' 

"  '  Aye,  to  be  sure,'  said  she.  '  My  name's 
Rosanna  —  'Sanna  Brent  th'  folk  at  th'  mill  allus 
ca's  me.  I  work  at  th'  loom  i'  th'  next  room  to 
thine.  I've  seed  thee  often  an'  often.' 

"  So  we  walks  home  to  her  lodgins,  an'  on  th' 
way  we  talks  together  friendly  an'  quiet  loike,  an' 
th'  more  we  talks  th'  more  I  sees  she's  had  trouble, 


"  SURLY 

an'  by  an'  by  —  bein'  on'y  common  workin'  folk, 
we're  straightforrad  to  each  other  in  our  plain  way 
—  it  comes  out  what  her  trouble  has  been. 

"  '  Yo'  p'raps  wouldn't  think  I've  been  a  married 
woman.  Hester,'  she  says  ;  '  but  I  ha',  an'  I 
wedded  an'  rued.  I  married  a  sojer  when  I  wur  a 
giddy  young  wench,  four  years  ago,  an'  it  wur  th' 
worst  thing  as  ever  I  did  i'  aw  my  days.  He  wur 
one  o'  yo're  handsome,  fastish  chaps,  an'  he  tired 
o'  me  as  men  o'  his  stripe  allus  do  tire  o'  poor 
lasses,  an'  then  he  ill-treated  me.  He  went  to  th' 
Crimea  after  we'n  been  wed  a  year,  an'  left  me  to 
shift  fur  mysen.  An'  I  heard  six  month  after  he 
wur  dead.  He'd  never  writ  back  to  me  nor  sent 
me  no  help,  but  I  couldna  think  he  wur  dead  till 
th'  letter  comn.  He  wur  killed  th'  first  month  he 
wur  out  fightin'  th'  Rooshians.  Poor  fellow  !  Poor 
Phil !  Th'  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  him  ! ' 

"  That  wur  how  I  found  out  about  her  trouble, 
an'  somehow  it  seemed  to  draw  me  to  her,  an' 
mak'  me  feel  kindly  to'ards  her ;  'twur  so  pitiful  to 
hear  her  talk  about  th'  rascal,  so  sorrowful  an' 
gentle,  an'  not  gi'  him  a  real  hard  word  for  a'  he'd 
done.  But  that's  allus  th'  way  wi'  women  folk  — 
th'  more  yo'  harry's  them,  th'  more  they'll  pity  yo' 
an'  pray  for  yo'.  Why  she  wurna  more  than  twenty- 
two  then,  an'  she  must  ha'  been  nowt  but  a  slip  o'  a 
lass  when  they  wur  wed. 

"  Hows'ever,  Rosanna  Brent  an'  me  got  to  be 
good  friends,  an'  we  walked  home  together  o' 


IO  "SURLY  TIM." 

nights,  an'  talked  about  our  bits  o'  wage,  an'  our 
bits  o'  debt,  an'  th'  way  that  wench  'ud  keep  me 
up  i'  spirits  when  I  wur  a  bit  down-hearted  about 
owt,  wur  just  a  wonder.  She  wur  so  quiet  an' 
steady,  an'  when  she  said  owt  she  meant  it,  an' 
she  never  said  too  much  or  too  little.  Her  brown 
eyes  allus  minded  me  o'  my  mother,  though  th'  old 
woman  deed  when  I  were  nobbut  a  little  chap,  but 
I  never  seed  'Sanna  Brent  smile  th'out  thinkin'  o' 
how  my  mother  looked  when  I  wur  kneelin'  down 
say  in'  my  prayers  after  her.  An'  bein'  as  th'  lass 
wur  so  dear  to  me,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  ax  her  to 
be  summat  dearer.  So  once  goin'  home  along  wi' 
her,  I  takes  hold  o'  her  hand  an'  lifts  it  up  an' 
kisses  it  gentle  —  as  gentle  an'  wi'  summat  th'  same 
feelin'  as  I'd  kiss  th'  Good  Book. 

"  '  'Sanna,'  I  says,  '  bein'  as  yo've  had  so  much 
trouble  wi'  yo're  first  chance,  would  yo'  be  afeard 
to  try  a  second  ?  Could  yo'  trust  a  mon  again  ? 
Such  a  mon  as  me,  'Sanna  ? ' 

"  <  I  wouldna  be  feart  to  trust  thee,  Tim,'  she 
answers  back  soft  an'  gentle  after  a  manner.  '  I 
wouldna  be  feart  to  trust  thee  any  time.' 

"  I  kisses  her  hand  again,  gentler  still. 

"'God  bless  thee,  lass,'  I  says.  'Does  that 
mean  yes  ? ' 

"  She  crept  up  closer  to  me  i'  her  sweet,  quiet 
way. 

"  '  Aye,  lad,'  she  answers.  '  It  means  yes,  an' 
I'll  bide  by  it.' 


"SURLY  TIM."  II 

"  '  An'  tha  shalt  never  rue  it,  lass,'  said  I. 
'  Tha's  gi'en  thy  life  to  me,  an'  I'll  gi'  mine  to  thee, 
sure  and  true.' 

"  So  we  wur  axed  i'  th'  church  th'  next  Sunday, 
an'  a  month  fro  then  we  wur  wed,  an'  if  ever  God's 
sun  shone  on  a  happy  mon,  it  shone  on  one  that 
day,  when  we  come  out  o'  church  together  —  me 
and  Rosanna  —  an'  went  to  our  bit  o'  a  home  to 
begin  life  again.  I  couldna  tell  thee,  Mester  — 
theer  beant  no  words  to  tell  how  happy  an'  peace 
ful  we  lived  fur  two  year  after  that.  My  lass  never 
altered  her  sweet  ways,  an'  I  just  loved  her  to 
make  up  to  her  fur  what  had  gone  by.  I  thanked 
God-a'-moighty  fur  his  blessing  every  day,  and  every 
day  I  prayed  to  be  made  worthy  of  it.  An'  here's 
just  wheer  I'd  like  to  ax  a  question,  Mester,  about 
summat  'ats  worretted  me  a  good  deal.  I  dunnot 
want  to  question  th'  Maker,  but  I  would  loike  to 
know  how  it  is  'at  sometime  it  seems  'at  we're  clean 
forgot  —  as  if  He  couldna  fash  hissen  about  our 
troubles,  an'  most  loike  left  'em  to  work  out  their- 
sens.  Yo'  see,  Mester,  an'  we  aw  see  sometime  He 
thinks  on  us  an'  gi's  us  a  lift,  but  hasna  tha  thysen 
seen  times  when  tha  stopt  short  an'  axed  thysen, 
'Wheer's  God-a'-moighty  'at  he  isna  straighten 
things  out  a  bit  ?  Th'  world's  i'  a  power  o'  a  snarl. 
Th'  righteous  is  forsaken,  'n  his  seed's  beggin' 
bread.  An'  th'  devil's  topmost  agen.'  I've  talked 
to  my  lass  about  it  sometimes,  an'  I  dunnot  think 
I  meant  harm,  Mester,  for  I  felt  humble  enough  — 


12  "  SURLY 

an'  when  I  talked,  my  lass  she'd  listen  an'  smile 
soft  an'  sorrowful,  but  she  never  gi'  me  but  one 
answer. 

"'Tim,'  she'd  say,  'this  is  on'y  th'  skoo'  an' 
we're  th'  scholars,  an'  He's  teachin'  us  his  way. 
We  munnot  be  loike  th'  children  o'  Israel  i'  th' 
Wilderness,  an'  turn  away  fro'  th'  cross  'cause  o'  th' 
Sarpent.  We  munnot  say,  "Theer's  a  snake  :  "  we 
mun  say,  "  Theer's  th'  Cross,  an'  th'  Lord  gi'  it  to 
us."  Th'  teacher  wouldna  be  o'  much  use,  Tim,  if 
th'  scholars  knew  as  much  as  he  did,  an'  I  allus 
think  it's  th'  best  to  comfort  mysen  wi'  sayin',  "Th' 
Lord-a'-moighty,  He  knows."' 

"  An'  she  allus  comforted  me  too  when  I  wur 
worretted.  Life  looked  smooth  somewhow  them 
three  year.  Happen  th'  Lord  sent  'em  to  me  to 
make  up  fur  what  wur  comin'. 

"  At  th'  eend  o'  th'  first  year  th'  child  wur  born, 
th'  little  lad  here,"  touching  the  turf  with  his  hand, 
" '  Wee  Wattie'  his  mother  ca'd  him,  an'  he  wur  a 
fine,  lightsome  little  chap.  He  filled  th'  whole 
house  wi'  music  day  in  an'  day  out,  crowin'  an' 
crowin'  —  an'  cryin'  too  sometime.  But  if  ever 
yo're  a  feyther,  Mester,  yo'll  find  out  'at  a  baby's 
cry's  music  often  enough,  an'  yo'll  find,  too,  if  yo' 
ever  lose  one,  'at  yo'd  give  all  yo'd  getten  just  to 
hear  even  th'  worst  o'  cryin'.  Rosanna  she  couldna 
find  i'  her  heart  to  set  th'  little  un  out  o'  her  arms 
a  minnit,  an'  she'd  go  about  th'  room  wi'  her  eyes 
aw  leeted  up,  an'  her  face  bloomin'  like  a  slip  o'  a 


"SURLY  TIM."  13 

girl's,  an'  if  she  laid  him  i'  th'  cradle  her  head  'ud 
be  turnt  o'er  her  shoulder  aw  th'  time  lookin'  at 
him  an'  singin'  bits  o'  sweet-soundin'  foolish 
woman-folks'  songs.  I  thowt  then  'at  them  old 
nursery  songs  wur  th'  happiest  music  I  ever  heard, 
an'  when  'Sanna  sung  'em  they  minded  me  o' 
hymn-tunes. 

"Well,  Mester,  before  th'  spring  wur  out  Wee 
Wat  was  toddlin'  round  holdin'  to  his  mother's 
gown,  an'  by  th'  middle  o'  th'  next  he  was  cooin' 
like  a  dove,  an'  prattlin'  words  i'  a  voice  like  hers. 
His  eyes  wur  big  an'  brown  an'  straightforrad  like 
hers,  an'  his  mouth  was  like  hers,  an'  his  curls  wur 
the  color  o'  a  brown  bee's  back.  Happen  we  set 
too  much  store  by  him,  or  happen  it  wur  on'y  th' 
Teacher  again  teachin'  us  his  way,  but  hows'ever 
that  wur,  I  came  home  one  sunny  mornin'  fro'  th' 
factory,  an'  my  dear  lass  met  me  at  th'  door,  all 
white  an'  cold,  but  tryin'  hard  to  be  brave  an'  help 
me  to  bear  what  she  had  to  tell. 

"  *  Tim,'  said  she,  '  th'  Lord  ha'  sent  us  a  trouble ; 
but  we  can  bear  it  together,  conna  we,  dear  lad  ? ' 

"  That  wur  aw,  but  I  knew  what  it  meant,  though 
th'  poor  little  lamb  had  been  well  enough  when  I 
kissed  him  last. 

"  I  went  in  an'  saw  him  lyin'  theer  on  his  pillows 
strugglin'  an'  gaspin'  in  hard  convulsions,  an'  I 
seed  aw  was  over.  An'  in  half  an  hour,  just  as  th' 
sun  crept  across  th'  room  an'  touched  his  curls,  th' 
pretty  little  chap  opens  his  eyes  aw  at  once. 


14  "SURLY  TIM." 

"'Daddy!'  he  crows  out.  '  Sithee  Dad—!' 
an'  he  lifts  hissen  up,  catches  at  th'  floatin'  sun 
shine,  laughs  at  it,  and  fa's  back  —  dead,  Mester. 

"  I've  allus  thowt  'at  th'  Lord-a'-moighty  knew 
what  He  wur  doin'  when  he  gi'  th'  woman  t'  Adam 
i'  th'  Garden  o'  Eden.  He  knowed  he  wur  nowt 
but  a  poor  chap  as  couldna  do  fur  hissen ;  an'  I 
suppose  that's  th'  reason  he  gi'  th'  woman  th' 
strength  to  bear  trouble  when  it  comn.  I'd  ha' 
gi'en  clean  in  if  it  hadna  been  fur  my  lass  when  th' 
little  chap  deed.  I  never  tackledt  owt  i'  aw  my 
days  'at  hurt  me  as  heavy  as  losin'  him  did.  I 
couldna  abear  th'  sight  o'  his  cradle,  an'  if  ever  I 
comn  across  any  o'  his  bits  o'  playthings,  I'd  fa' 
to  cryin'  an'  shakin'  like  a  babby.  I  kept  out  o'  th' 
way  o'  th'  neebors'  children  even.  I  wasna  like 
Rosanna.  I  couldna  see  quoite  clear  what  th' 
Lord  meant,  an'  I  couldna  help  murmuring  sad  and 
heavy.  That's  just  loike  us  men,  Mester ;  just  as 
if  th'  dear  wench  as  had  give  him  her  life  fur  food 
day  an'  neet,  hadna  fur  th'  best  reet  o'  th'  two  to 
be  weak  an'  heavy-hearted. 

"  But  I  getten  welly  over  it  at  last,  an'  we  was 
beginnin'  to  come  round  a  bit  an'  look  forrard  to 
th'  toime  we'd  see  him  agen  'stead  o'  lookin'  back 
to  th'  toime  we  shut  th'  round  bit  of  a  face  under 
th'  coffin-lid.  Th'  day  comn  when  we  could  bear 
to  talk  about  him  an'  moind  things  he'd  said  an' 
tried  to  say  i'  his  broken  babby  way.  An'  so  we 
wur  creepin'  back  again  to  th'  old  happy  quiet,  an 


"SURLY  TIM."  15 

we  had  been  for  welly  six  month,  when  summat 
fresh  come.  I'll  never  forget  it,  Mester,  th'  neet  it 
happened.  I'd  kissed  Rosanna  at  th'  door  an'  left 
her  standin'  theer  when  I  went  up  to  th'  village  to 
buy  summat  she  wanted.  It  wur  a  bright  moon 
light  neet,  just  such  a  neet  as  this,  an'  th'  lass  had 
followed  me  out  to  see  th'  moonshine,  it  wur  so 
bright  an'  clear ;  an'  just  before  I  starts  she  folds 
both  her  hands  on  my  shoulder  an'  says,  soft  an' 
thoughtful :  — 

"  *  Tim,  I  wonder  if  th'  little  chap  sees  us  ? ' 

"  *  I'd  loike  to  know,  dear  lass,'  I  answers  back. 
An'  then  she  speaks  again  :  — 

"  *  Tim,  I  wonder  if  he'd  know  he  was  ours  if  he 
could  see,  or  if  he'd  ha'  forgot  ?  He  wur  such  a 
little  fellow.' 

"  Them  wur  th'  last  peaceful  words  I  ever  heerd 
her  speak.  I  went  up  to  th'  village  an*  getten 
what  she  sent  me  fur,  an'  then  I  comn  back.  Th' 
moon  wur  shinin'  as  bright  as  ever,  an'  th'  flowers 
i'  her  slip  o'  a  garden  wur  aw  sparklin'  wi'  dew.  I 
seed  'em  as  I  went  up  th'  walk,  an'  I  thowt  again 
of  what  she'd  said  bout  th'  little  lad. 

"  She  wasna  outside,  an'  I  couldna  see  a  leet 
about  th'  house,  but  I  heerd  voices,  so  I  walked 
straight  in  —  into  th'  entry  an'  into  th'  kitchen,  an' 
theer  she  wur,  Mester  —  my  poor  wench,  crouchin' 
down  by  th'  table,  hidin'  her  face  i'  her  hands,  an' 
close  beside  her  wur  a  mon  —  a  mon  i'  red  sojer 
clothes. 


1 6  "SURLY  TIM." 

"  My  heart  leaped  into  my  throat,  an'  fur  a  min- 
nit  I  hadna  a  word,  fur  I  saw  summat  wur  up, 
though  I  couldna  tell  what  it  wur.  But  at  last  my 
voice  come  back, 

"  '  Good  evenin',  Mester,'  I  says  to  him ;  '  I 
hope  yo'  ha'not  broughten  ill-news  ?  What  ails 
thee,  dear  lass  ? ' 

"  She  stirs  a  little,  an'  gives  a  moan  like  a  dyin' 
child;  and  then  she  lifts  up  her  wan,  broken 
hearted  face,  an'  stretches  out  both  her  hands  to 
me. 

"'Tim,'  she  says,  'dunnot  hate  me,  lad,  dunnot. 
I  thowt  he  wur  dead  long  sin'.  I  thowt  'at  th' 
Rooshans  killed  him  an'  I  wur  free,  but  I  amna.  I 
never  wur.  He  never  deed,  Tim,  an'  theer  he  is 
—  the  mon  as  I  wur  wed  to  an'  left  by.  God 
forgi'  him,  an'  oh,  God  forgi'  me  ! ' 

"  Theer,  Mester,  theer's  a  story  fur  thee.  What 
dost  ta'  think  o't?  My  poor  lass  wasna  my 
wife  at  aw  —  th'  little  chap's  mother  wasna  his 
feyther's  wife,  an'  never  had  been.  That  theer 
worthless  fellow  as  beat  an'  starved  her  an'  left 
her  to  fight  th'  world  alone,  had  comn  back  alive 
an'  well,  ready  to  begin  agen.  He  could  tak'  her 
away  fro'  me  any  hour  i'  th'  day,  and  I  couldna  say 
a  word  to  bar  him.  Th'  law  said  my  wife  —  th' 
little  dead  lad's  mother  —  belonged  to  him,  body 
an'  soul.  Theer  was  no  law  to  help  us  —  it  wur  aw 
on  his  side. 

"  Theer's  no  use  o'  goin'  o'er  aw  we  said  to  each 


"SURLY  TIM."  I/ 

other  i'  that  dark  room  theer.  I  raved  an'  prayed 
an'  pled  wi'  th'  lass  to  let  me  carry  her  across  th' 
seas,  wheer  I'd  heerd  tell  theer  was  help  fur  such 
loike  ;  but  she  pled  back  i'  her  broken,  patient  way 
that  it  wouldna  be  reet,  an'  happen  it  wur  the  Lord's 
will.  She  didna  say  much  to  th'  sojer.  I  scarce 
heerd  her  speak  to  him  more  than  once,  when  she 
axed  him  to  let  her  go  away  by  hersen. 

"'Tha  conna  want  me  now,  Phil,'  she  said. 
'Tha  conna  care  fur  me.  Tha  must  know  I'm 
more  this  mon's  wife  than  thine.  But  I  dunnot  ax 
thee  to  gi'  me  to  him  because  I  know  that  wouldna 
be  reet ;  I  on'y  ax  thee  to  let  me  aloan.  I'll  go  fur 
enough  off  an'  never  see  him  more.' 

"  But  th'  villain  held  to  her.  If  she  didna  come 
wi'  him,  he  said,  he'd  ha'  her  up  before  th'  court  fur 
bigamy.  I  could  ha'  done  murder  then,  Mester, 
an'  I  would  ha'  done  if  it  hadna  been  for  th'  poor 
lass  runnin'  in  betwixt  us  an'  pleadin'  wi'  aw  her 
might.  If  we'n  been  rich  foak  theer  might  ha' 
been  some  help  fur  her,  at  least ;  th'  law  might  ha' 
been  browt  to  mak'  him  leave  her  be,  but  bein' 
poor  workin'  foak  theer  wur  on'y  one  thing :  th' 
wife  mun  go  wi'  th'  husband,  an'  theer  th'  husband 
stood  —  a  scoundrel,  cursin',  wi'  his  black  heart  on 
his  tongue. 

" '  Well,'  says  th'  lass  at  last,  fair  wearied  out  wi' 
grief,  'I'll  go  wi'  thee,  Phil,  an'  I'll  do  my  best  to 
please  thee,  but  I  wunnot  promise  to  forget  th' 
2 


1 8  "SURLY  TIM:' 

mon  as  has  been  true  to  me,  an'  has  stood  betwixt 
me  an'  th'  world.' 

"  Then  she  turned  round  to  me. 

"  '  Tim,'  she  said  to  me,  as  if  she  wur  haaf  feart 
—  aye,  feart  o'  him,  an'  me  standin' by.  Three 
hours  afore,  th'  law  ud  ha'  let  me  mill  any  mon  'at 
feart  her.  '  Tim,'  she  says,  '  surely  he  wunnot  re 
fuse  to  let  us  go  together  to  th'  little  lad's  grave  — 
fur  th'  last  time.'  She  didna  speak  to  him  but  tn 
me,  an'  she  spoke  still  an'  strained  as  if  she  wui 
too  heart-broke  to  be  wild.  Her  face  was  as  white 
as  th'  dead,  but  she  didna  cry,  as  ony  other  woman 
would  ha'  done.  'Come,  Tim,'  she  said,  'he  conna 
say  no  to  that.' 

"  An'  so  out  we  went  'thout  another  word,  an' 
left  th'  black-hearted  rascal  behind,  sittin'  i'  th' 
very  room  th'  little  un  deed  in.  His  cradle  stood 
theer  i'  th'  corner.  We  went  out  into  th'  moonlight 
'thout  speakin',  an'  we  didna  say  a  word  until  we 
come  to  this  very  place,  Mester. 

"  We  stood  here  for  a  minute  silent,  an'  then  I 
sees  her  begin  to  shake,  an'  she  throws  hersen 
down  on  th'  grass  wi'  her  arms  flung  o'er  th'  grave, 
an'  she  cries  out  as  if  her  death-wound  had  been 
give  to  her. 

"  *  Little  lad,'  she  says,  *  little  lad,  dost  ta  see 
thy  mother  ?  Canst  na  tha  hear  her  callin'  thee  ? 
Little  lad,  get  nigh  to  th'  Throne  an'  plead  ! ' 

"  I  fell  down  beside  o'  th'  poor  crushed  wench 
an*  sobbed  wi'  her.  I  couldna  comfort  her,  fur 


"SURLY  TIM:'  19 

wheer  wur  there  any  comfort  for  us  ?  Theer  wur 
none  left  —  theer  wur  no  hope.  We  was  shamed 
an'  broke  down  —  our  lives  was  lost.  Th'  past  wur 
nowt  —  th}  future  wur  worse.  Oh,  my  poor  lass, 
how  hard  she  tried  to  pray  —  fur  me,  Mester  — 
yes,  fur  me,  as  she  lay  theer  wi'  her  arms  round 
her  dead  babby's  grave,  an'  her  cheek  on  th'  grass 
as  grew  o'er  his  breast.  '  Lord  God-a'-moighty, 
she  says,  *  help  us  —  dunnot  gi'  us  up  —  dunnot, 
dunnot.  We  conna  do  'thowt  thee  now,  if  th'  time 
ever  wur  when  we  could.  Th'  little  chap  mun  be 
wi'  thee,  I  moind  th'  bit  o'  comfort  about  getherin' 
th'  lambs  i'  his  bosom.  An',  Lord,  if  tha  could 
spare  him  a  minnit,  send  him  down  to  us  wi'  a  bit 
o'  leet.  Oh,  Feyther  !  help  th'  poor  lad  here  — 
help  him.  Let  th'  weight  fa'  on  me,  not  on  him. 
Just  help  th'  poor  lad  to  bear  it.  If  ever  I  did  owt 
as  wur  worthy  i'  thy  sight,  let  that  be  my  reward. 
Dear  Lord-a'-moighty,  I'd  be  willin'  to  gi'  up  a  bit 
o'  my  own  heavenly  glory  fur  th'  dear  lad's  sake.' 

tl  Well,  Mester,  she  lay  theer  on  th'  grass  prayin' 
an  cryin',  wild  but  gentle,  fur  nigh  haaf  an  hour, 
an'  then  it  seemed  'at  she  got  quoite  loike,  an'  she 
got  up.  Happen  th'  Lord  had  hearkened  an'  sent 
th'  child  — happen  He  had,  fur  when  she  getten  up 
her  face  looked  to  me  aw  white  an'  shinin'  i'  th' 
clear  moonlight. 

" '  Sit  down  by  me,  dear  lad,'  she  said,  '  an'  hold 
my  hand  a  minnit.'  I  set  down  an'  took  hold  of 
her  hand,  as  she  bid  me. 


20  "SURLY  TIM." 

"  '  Tim,'  she  said,  *  this  wur  why  th'  little  chap 
deed.  Dost  na  tha  see  now  'at  th'  Lord  knew 
best  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  lass,'  I  answers  humble,  an'  lays  my  face 
on  her  hand,  breakin'  down  again. 

" '  Hush,  dear  lad,'  she  whispers,  t  we  hannot 
time  fur  that.  I  want  to  talk  to  thee.  Wilta  lis 
ten  ?' 

"  '  Yes,  wife,'  I  says,  an'  I  heerd  her  sob  when  I 
said  it,  but  she  catches  hersen  up  again. 

"  '  I  want  thee  to  mak'  me  a  promise,'  said  she. 
'  I  want  thee  to  promise  never  to  forget  what  peace 
we  ha'  had.  I  want  thee  to  remember  it  allus,  an' 
to  moind  him  'at's  dead,  an'  let  his  little  hond 
howd  thee  back  fro'  sin  an'  hard  thowts.  I'll  pray 
fur  thee  neet  an'  day,  Tim,  an'  tha  shalt  pray  fur 
me,  an'  happen  theer'll  come  a  leet.  But  if  theer 
dunnot,  dear  lad  —  an'  I  dunnot  see  how  theer 
could  —  if  theer  dunnot,  an'  we  never  see  each 
other  agen,  I  want  thee  to  mak'  me  a  promise  that 
if  tha  sees  th'  little  chap  first  tha'lt  moind  him  .o' 
me,  and  watch  out  wi'  him  nigh  th'  gate,  and  I'll 
promise  thee  that  if  I  see  him  first,  I'll  moind  him 
o'  thee  an'  watch  out  true  an'  constant.' 

"I  promised  her,  Mester,  as  yo'  can  guess,  an' 
we  kneeled  down  an'  kissed  th'  grass,  an'  she  took 
a  bit  o'  th'  sod  to  put  i'  her  bosom.  An'  then  we 
stood  up  an'  looked  at  each  other,  an'  at  last  she 
put  her  dear  face  on  my  breast  an'  kissed  me,  as 
she  had  done  every  neet  sin'  we  were  mon  an' 
wife. 


"SURLY   TIM."  21 

"  '  Good-bye,  dear  lad,'  she  whispers  —  her  voice 
aw  broken.  '  Doant  come  back  to  th'  house  till 
I'm  gone.  Good-bye,  dear,  dear,  lad,  an'  God 
bless  thee.'  An'  she  slipped  out  o'  my  arms  an' 
wur  gone  in  a  moment  awmost  before  I  could  cry 
out. 

"  Theer  isna  much  more  to  tell,  Mester — th' 
eend's  cpmin'  now,  an'  happen  it'll  shorten  off  th' 
story,  so  'at  it  seems  suddent  to  thee.  But  it  were 
na  suddent  to  me.  I  lived  alone  here,  an'  worked, 
an'  moinded  my  own  business,  an'  answered  no  ques 
tions  fur  nigh  about  a  year,  hearin'  nowt,  an'  seein' 
nowt,  an'  hopin'  nowt,  till  one  toime  when  th' 
daisies  were  blowin'  on  th'  little  grave  here,  theer 
come  to  me  a  letter  fro'  Manchester  fro'  one  o'  th' 
medical  chaps  i'  th'  hospital.  It  wur  a  short  letter 
wi'  prent  on  it,  an'  the  moment  I  seed  it  I  knowed 
summat  wur  up,  an''  I  opened  it  tremblin'.  Mester, 
theer  wur  a  woman  lyin'  i'  one  o'  th'  wards  dyin'  o' 
some  long-named  heart-disease,  an'  she'd  prayed 
'em  to  send  fur  me,  an'  one  o'  th'  young  soft 
hearted  ones  had  writ  me  a  line  to  let  me  know. 

"  I  started  aw'most  afore  I'd  finished  readin'  th' 
letter,  an'  when  I  getten  to  th'  place  I  fun  just  what 
I  knowed  I  should.  I  fun  her  —  my  wife  —  th' 
blessed  lass,  an'  if  I'd  been  an  hour  later  I  woulcl- 
na  ha'  seen  her  alive,  fur  she  were  nigh  past  knowin' 
me  then. 

"But  I  knelt  down  byth'  bedside  an'  I  plead  wi' 


22  "SURLY  TIM." 

her  as  she  lay  theer,  until  I  browt  her  back  to  th' 
world  again  fur  one  moment.  Her  eyes  flew  wide 
open  aw  at  onct,  an'  she  seed  me  an'  smiled,  aw 
her  dear  face  quiverin'  i'  death. 
•  "  '  Dear  lad,'  she  whispered,  '  th'  path  was  na  so 
long  after  aw.  Th'  Lord  knew —  He  trod  it  hissen' 
onct,  yo'  know.  I  knowed  tha'd  come  —  I  prayed 
so.  I've  reached  th'  very  eend  now,  Tim,  an'  I 
shall  see  th'  little  lad  first.  But  I  wunnot  forget 
my  promise  —  no.  I'll  look  out  —  fur  thee — fur 
thee  —  at  th'  gate.' 

"  An'  her  eyes  shut  slow  an'  quiet,  an'  I  knowed 
she  was  dead. 

"  Theer,  Mester  Doncaster,  theer  it  aw  is,  fur 
theer  she  lies  under  th'  daisies  cloost  by  her  child, 
fur  I  browt  her  here  an'  buried  her.  Th'  fellow  as 
come  betwixt  us  had  tortured  her  fur  a  while  an' 
then  left  her  again,  I  fun  out  —  an'  she  wur  so 
afeard  of  doin'  me  some  harm  that  she  wouldna 
come  nigh  me.  It  wur  heart  disease  as  killed  her, 
th'  medical  chaps  said,  but  I  knowed  better  —  it 
wur  heart-break.  That's  aw.  Sometimes  I  think 
o'er  it  till  I  conna  stand  it  any  longer,  an'  I'm  fain 
to  come  here  an'  lay  my  hand  on  th'  grass,  —  an' 
sometimes  I  ha'  queer  dreams  about  her.  I  had 
one  last  neet.  I  thowt  'at  she  comn  to  me  aw  at 
onct  just  as  she  used  to  look,  on'y,  wi'  her  white 
face  shinin'  loike  a  star,  an'  she  says,  '  Tim,  th'  path 
isna  so  long  after  aw  —  tha's  come  nigh  to  th'  eend, 
an'  me  an'  th'  little  chap  is  waitin'.  He  knows 
thee,  dear  lad,  fur  I've  towt  him.' 


"SURLY  TIM."  23 

"That's  why  I  comn  here  to-neet,  Mester;  an' 
I  believe  that's  why  I've  talked  so  free  to  thee. 
If  I'm  near  th'  eend  I'd  loike  some  one  to  know. 
I  ha'  meant  no  hurt  when  I  seemed  grum  an'  surly. 
It  wurna  ill-will,  but  a  heavy  heart." 

He  stopped  here,  and  his  head  drooped  upon  his 
hands  again,  and  for  a  minute  or  so  there  was  an 
other  dead  silence.  Such  a  story  as  this  needed 
no  comment.  I  could  make  none.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  poor  fellow's  sore  heart  could  bear 
none.  At  length  he  rose  from  the  turf  and  stood 
up,  looking  out  over  the  graves  into  the  soft  light 
beyond  with  a  strange,  wistful  sadness. 

''Well,  I  mun  go  now,"  he  said  slowly.  "Good- 
neet,  Mester,  good-neet,  an'  thank  yo'  fur  listenin'." 

"  Good  night,"  I  returned,  adding,  in  an  impulse 
of  pity  that  was  almost  a  passion,  "  and  God  help 
you  !  " 

"  Thank  yo'  again,  Mester  !  "  he  said,  and  then 
turned  away;  and  as  I  sat  pondering  I  watched  his 
heavy  drooping  figure  threading  its  way  among  the 
dark  mounds  and  white  marble,  and  under  the 
shadowy  trees,  and  out  into  the  path  beyond.  I  did 
not  sleep  well  that  night.  The  strained,  heavy 
tones  of  the  man's  voice  were  in  my  ears,  and  the 
homely  yet  tragic  story  seemed  to  weave  .itself  into 
all  my  thoughts,  and  keep  me  from  rest.  I  could 
not  get  it  out  of  my  mind. 

In  consequence  of  this  sleeplessness  I  was  later 


24  "SC/XLY  TIM." 

than  usual  in  going  down  to  the  factory,  and  when 
I  arrived  at  the  gates  I  found  an  unusual  bustle 
there.  Something  out  of  the  ordinary  routine  had 
plainly  occurred,  for  the  whole  place  was  in  confu 
sion.  There  was  a  crowd  of  hands  grouped  about 
one  corner  of  the  yard,  and  as  I  came  in  a  man  ran 
against  me,  and  showed  me  a  terribly  pale  face. 

"I  ax  pardon,  Mester  Doncaster,"  he  said  in  a 
wild  hurry,  "  but  theer's  an  accident  happened. 
One  o'  th'  weavers  is  hurt  bad,  an'  I'm  goin'  fur 
th'  doctor.  Th'  loom  caught  an'  crushed  him  afore 
we  could  stop  it." 

For  some  reason  or  other  my  heart  misgave  me 
that  very  moment.  I  pushed  forward  to  the  group 
in  the  yard  corner,  and  made  my  way  through  it. 

A  man  was  lying  on  a  pile  of  coats  in  the  middle 
of  the  by-standers,  —  a  poor  fellow  crushed  and 
torn  and  bruised,  but  lying  quite  quiet  now,  only 
for  an  occasional  little  moan,  that  was  scarcely 
more  than  a  quick  gasp  for  breath.  It  was  Surly 
.Tim! 

"  He's  nigh  th'  eend  o'  it  now  !  "  said  one  of  the 
hands  pityingly.  "  He's  nigh  th'  last  now,  poor 
chap  !  What's  that  he's  sayin',  lads  ?  " 

For  all  at  once  some  flickering  sense  seemed  to 
have  caught  at  one  of  the  speaker's  words,  and  the 
wounded  man  stirred,  murmuring  faintly  —  but  not 
to  the  watchers.  Ah,  no  !  to  something  far,  far 
beyond  their  feeble  human  sight  —  to  something 
in  the  broad  Without. 


"SURLY  TIM."  25 

"  Th'  eend  ! "  he  said,  "  aye,  this  is  th'  eend, 
dear  lass,  an'  th'  path's  aw  shinin'  or  summat  an 
—  Why,  lass,  I  can  see  thee  plain,  an'  th'  little  chap 
too  !  " 

Another  flutter  of  the  breath,  one  slight  move 
ment  of  the  mangled  hand,  and  I  bent  down  closer 
to  the  poor  fellow  —  closer,  because  my  eyes  were 
so  dimmed  that  I  could  not  see. 

"  Lads,"  I  said  aloud  a  few  seconds  later,  "  you 
can  do  no  more  for  him.  His  pain  is  over !  " 

For  with  a  sudden  glow  of  light  which  shone 
upon  the  shortened  path  and  the  waiting  figures  of 
his  child  and  its  mother,  Surly  Tim's  earthly  trouble 
had  ended. 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 


IT  was  Madame  who  first  entered  the  box,  and 
Madame  was  bright  with  youthful  bloom,  bright 
with  jewels,  and,  moreover,  a  beauty.  She  was  a 
little  creature,  with  childishly  large  eyes,  a  low, 
white  forehead,  reddish-brown  hair,  and  Greek  nose 
and  mouth. 

"  Clearly,"  remarked  the  old  lady  in  the  box  op 
posite,  "not  a  Frenchwoman.  Her  youth  is  too 
girlish,  and  she  has  too  petulant  an  air  of  indif 
ference." 

This  old  lady  in  the  box  opposite  was  that  ven 
erable  and  somewhat  severe  aristocrat,  Madame  de 
Castro,  and  having  gazed  for  a  moment  or  so  a 
little  disapprovingly  at  the  new  arrival,  she  turned 
her  glasses  to  the  young  beauty's  companion  and 
uttered  an  exclamation. 

It  was  at  Monsieur  she  was  looking  now.  Mon 
sieur  had  followed  his  wife  closely,  bearing  her  fan 
and  bouquet  and  wrap,  and  had  silently  seated  him 
self  a  little  behind  her  and  in  the  shadow. 


" LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA   PETITE  DAME:'    2J 

11  del!"  cried  Madame  de  Castro,  "  what  an  ugly 
little  man !  " 

It  was  not  an  unnatural  exclamation.  Fate  had 
not  been  so  kind  to  the  individual  referred  to  as 
she  might  have  been  —  in  fact  she  had  been 
definitely  cruel.  He  was  small  of  figure,  insignifi 
cant,  dark,  and  wore  a  patient  sphynx-like  air  of 
gravity.  He  did  not  seem  to  speak  or  move,  simply 
sat  in  the  shadow  holding  his  wife's  belongings, 
apparently  almost  entirely  unnoticed  by  her. 

"I  don't  know  him  at  all,"  said  Madame  de 
Castro ;  "  though  that  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
since  I  have  exiled  myself  long  enough  to  forget 
and  be  forgotten  by  half  Paris.  What  is  his 
name  ? " 

The  gentleman  at  her  side  —  a  distinguished- 
looking  old  young  man,  with  a  sarcastic  smile  — 
began  with  the  smile,  and  ended  with  a  half  laugh. 

"They  call  him,"  he  replied,  "  Le  Monsieur  de 
la  petite  Dame.  His  name  is  Villefort." 

"Le  Monsieur  de  la  petite  Dame,"  repeated 
Madame,  testily.  "  That  is  a  title  of  new  Paris  — 
the  Paris  of  your  Americans  and  English.  It  is 
villainously  ill-bred." 

M.  Renard's  laugh  receded  into  the  smile  again, 
and  the  smile  became  of  double  significance. 

"  True,"  he  acquiesced,  "  but  it  is  also  villain 
ously  apropos.  Look  for  yourself." 

Madame  did  so,  and  her  next  query,  after  she 
had  dropped  her  glass  again,  was  a  sharp  one. 


28      "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

«  Who  is  she  —  the  wife  ?  " 

"  She  is  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  one  of  our 
Americans  !  You  know  the  class,"  —  with  a  little 
wave  of  the  hand,  —  "  rich,  unconventional,  com 
fortable  people,  who  live  well  and  dress  well,  and 
have  an  incomprehensibly  naive  way  of  going  to 
impossible  places  and  doing  impossible  things  by 
way  of  enjoyment.  Our  fair  friend  there,  for 
instance,  has  probably  been  round  the  world  upon 
several  occasions',  and  is  familiar  with  a  number  of 
places  and  objects  of  note  fearful  to  contemplate. 
They  came  here  as  tourists,  and  became  fascinated 
with  European  life.  The  most  overwhelming  pun 
ishment  which  could  be  inflicted  upon  that  excel 
lent  woman,  the  mother,  would  be  that  she  should 
be  compelled  to  return  to  her  New  York,  or  Phila 
delphia,  or  Boston,  whichsoever  it  may  be." 

"  Humph  !  "  commented  Madame.  "  But  you 
have  not  told  me  the  name." 

"  Madame  Villefort's  ?  No,  not  yet.  It  was 
Trent  —  Mademoiselle  Bertha  Trent." 

"  She  is  not  twenty  yet,"  said  Madame,  in  a 
queer,  grumbling  tone.  "  What  did  she  marry  that 
man  for  ? " 

"God  knows,"  replied  M.  Renard,  not  too  de 
voutly,  "  Paris  does  not." 

For  some  reason  best  known  to  herself,  Madame 
de  Castro  looked  angry.  She  was  a  shrewd  old 
person,  with  strong  whims  of  her  own,  even  at 
seventy.  She  quite  glared  at  the  pretty  American 
from  under  her  bushy  eyebrows. 


"LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     29 

"  Le  Monsieur  de  la  petite  Dame  !  "  she  fumed. 
"I  tell  you  it  is  low  —  low  to  give  a  man  such 
names." 

"  Oh !  "  returned  Renard,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders,  "we  did  not  give  it  to  him.  It  was  an  awk 
ward  servant  who  dubbed  him  so  at  first.  She  was 
new  to  her  position,  and  forgot  his  name,  and  be 
ing  asked  who  had  arrived,  stumbled  upon  this 
bon  mot :  i  Un  monsieur,  Madame  —  le  monsieur  de 
la  petite  damej  —  and,  being  repeated  and  tossed 
lightly  from  hand  to  hand,  it  has  become  at  last 
an  established  witticism,  albeit  bandied  under 
breath." 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  august  De  Castro 
that  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening's  enter 
tainment  she  should  occupy  herself  more  with  her 
neighbors  than  with  the  opera.  She  aroused  M. 
Renard  to  a  secret  ecstasy  of  mirth  by  the  sharp 
steadiness  of  her  observation  of  the  inmates  of  the 
box  opposite  to  them.  She  talked  about  them,  too, 
in  a  tone  not  too  well  modulated,  criticising  the 
beautifully  dressed  little  woman,  her  hair,  her  eyes, 
her  Greek  nose  and  mouth,  and,  more  than  all,  her 
indifferent  expression  and  her  manner  of  leaning 
upon  the  edge  of  her  box  and  staring  at  the  stage 
as  if  she  did  not  care  for,  and  indeed  scarcely  saw, 
what  was  going  on  upon  it. 

"  That  is  the  way  with  your  American  beauties,  " 
she  said.  "  They  have  no  respect  for  things. 
Their  people  spoil  them  —  their  men  especially. 


3<D     " LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

They  consider  themselves  privileged  to  act  as  their 
whims  direct.  They  have  not  the  gentle  timidity 
of  Frenchwomen.  What  French  girl  would  have 
the  sangfroid  to  sit  in  one  of  the  best  boxes  of  the 
Nouvelle  Opera  and  regard,  with  an  actual  air  of 
ennui,  such  a  performance  as  this  ?  She  does  not 
hear  a  word  that  is  sung." 

"  And  we  —  do  we  hear  ?  "  bantered  M.  Renard. 

"  Pouf!  "  cried  Madame.  "  We  !  We  are  world- 
dried  and  weather-beaten.  We  have  not  a  worm- 
eaten  emotion  between  us.  I  am  seventy,  and  you, 
who  are  thirty-five,  are  the  elder  of  the  two.  Bah ! 
At  that  girl's  age  I  had  the  heart  of  a  dove." 

"But  that  is  long  ago,"  murmured  M.  Renard, 
as  if  to  himself.  It  was  quite  human  that  he  should 
slightly  resent  being  classed  with  an  unamiable 
grenadier  of  seventy. 

"  Yes  !  "  with  considerable  asperity.  "  Fifty 
years  ! "  Then,  with  harsh  voice  and  withered  face 
melted  suddenly  into  softness  quite  naive,  "  Mon 
Dieu /"  she  said,  "  Fifty  years  since  Arsene  whis 
pered  into  my  ear  at  my  first  opera,  that  he  saw 
tears  in  my  eyes  !  " 

It  was  at  this  instant  that  there  appeared  in  the 
Villefort  box  a  new  figure,  —  that  of  a  dark,  slight 
young  man  of  graceful  movements,  —  in  fact,  a 
young  man  of  intensely  striking  appearance.  M. 
Villefort  rose  to  receive  him  with  serious  courtesy, 
but  the  pretty  American  was  not  so  gracious.  Not 
until  he  had  seated  himself  at  her  side  and  spoken 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     31 

to  her  did  she  turn  her  head  and  permit  her  eyes 
simply  to  rest  upon  his  face. 

M.  Renard  smiled  again. 

"  Enter,"  he  remarked  in  a  low  tone,  —  "  enter 
M.  Ralph  Edmondstone,  the  cousin  of  Madame." 

His  companion  asked  no  questions,  but  he  pro 
ceeded,  returning  to  his  light  and  airy  tone  :  — 

"  M.  Ralph  Edmondstone  is  a  genius,"  he  said. 
"  He  is  an  artist,  he  is  a  poet,  he  is  also  a  writer 
of  subtile  prose.  His  sonnets  to  Euphrasie  —  in 
the  day  of  Euphrasie  —  awakened  the  admiration 
of  the  sternest  critics  :  they  were  so  tender,  so  full 
of  purest  fire  !  Some  of  the  same  critics  also  could 
scarcely  choose  between  these  and  his  songs  to 
Aglae  in  her  day,  or  Camille  in  hers.  He  is  a  young 
man  of  fine  fancies,  and  possesses  the  amiable 
quality  of  being  invariably  passionately  in  earnest. 
As  he  was  serious  in  his  sentiments  yesterday,  so 
he  will  be  to-morrow,  so  he  is  to-day." 

"  To-day  !  "  echoed  Madame  de  Castro.  "  Non 
sense  !" 

Madame  Villefort  did  not  seem  to  talk  much.  It 
was  M.  Ralph  Edmondstone  who  conversed,  and 
that,  too,  with  so  much  of  the  charm  of  animation 
that  it  was  pleasurable  even  to  be  a  mere  looker- 
on.  One  involuntarily  strained  one's  ears  to  catch 
a  sentence,  —  he  was  so  eagerly  absorbed,  so  full 
of  rapid,  gracefully  unconscious  and  unconven 
tional  gesture. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  is  saying  ? "  Madame  de 
Castro  was  once  betrayed  into  exclaiming. 


32     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  Something  metaphysical,  about  a  poem,  or  a 
passage  of  music,  or  a  picture,  —  or  perhaps  his 
soul,"  returned  M.  Renard.  "  His  soul  is  his 
strong  point,  —  he  pets  it  and  wonders  at  it.  He 
puts  it  through  its  paces.  And  yet,  singularly 
enough,  he  is  never  ridiculous  —  only  fanciful  and 
naive.  It  is  his  soul  which  so  fascinates  women.''* 

Whether  this  last  was  true  of  other  women  or 
not,  Madame  Villefort  scarcely  appeared  fascinated. 
As  she  listened,  her  eyes  still  rested  upon  his  eager 
mobile  face,  but  with  a  peculiar  expression, — >an 
expression  of  critical  attention,  and  yet  one  which 
somehow  detracted  from  her  look  of  youth,  as  if 
she  weighed  his  words  as  they  fell  from  his  lips 
and  classified  them,  without  any  touch  of  the  en 
thusiasm  which  stirred  within  himself. 

Suddenly  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  addressed 
her  husband,  who  immediately  rose  also.  Then 
she  spoke  to  M.  Edmondstone,  and  without  more 
ado,  the  three  left  the  box,  —  the  young  beauty,  a 
little  oddly,  rather  followed  than  accompanied  by 
her  companions,  —  at  the  recognition  of  which 
circumstance  Madame  de  Castro  uttered  a  series 
of  sharp  ejaculations  of  disapproval. 

"  Bah  !  Bah  !  "  she  cried.  "  She  is  too  young 
for  such  airs  !  —  as  if  she  were  Madame  ITmpera- 
trice  herself!  Take  me  to  my  carriage.  I  am 
tired  also." 

Crossing  the  pavement  with  M.  Renard,  they 
passed  the  carriage  of  the  Villeforts.  Before  its 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."      33 

open  door  stood  M.  Villefort  and  Edmondstone, 
and  the  younger  man,  with  bared  head,  bent  for 
ward  speaking  to  his  cousin. 

"  If  I  come  to-morrow,"  he  was  saying,  "  you  will 
be  at  home,  Bertha  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then,  good-night,"  —  holding  out  his  hand,  — 
"  only  I  wish  so  that  you  would  go  to  the  Aylmers 
instead  of  home.  That  protegee  of  Mrs.  Aylmer's 
—  the  little  singing  girl  —  would  touch  your  heart 
with  her  voice.  On  hearing  her,  one  thinks  at  once 
of  some  shy  wild  bird  high  in  a  clear  sky, — far 
enough  above  earth  to  have  forgotten  to  be  timid." 

"  Yes,"  came  quietly  from  the  darkness  within 
the  carriage  ;  "  but  I  am  too  tired  to  care  about 
voices  just  now.  Good-night,  Ralph  !  " 

M.  Renard's  reply  of  "  God  knows,  Paris  does 
not,"  to  Madame  de  Castro's  query  as  to  why 
Madame  Villefort  had  married  her  husband,  con 
tained  an  element  of  truth,  and  yet  there  were  num 
bers  of  Parisian-Americans,  more  especially  the 
young,  well-looking,  and  masculine,  who  at  the 
time  the  marriage  had  taken  place  had  been  ready 
enough  with  sardonic  explanations. 

"There  are  women  who  are  avaricious  enough 
to  sell  their  souls,"  they  cried  ;  "and  the  maternal 
Trent  is  one  of  them.  The  girl  is  only  to  blame 
for  allowing  herself  to  be  bullied  into  the  match." 

"  But  the  weak  place  in  this  argument,"  said  M. 
Renard,  "is,  that  the  people  are  too  rich  to  be 
3 


34     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

greatly  influenced  by  money.  If  there  had  been  a 
title, — but  there  was  no  title." 

Neither  did  Bertha  Trent  comport  herself  like  a 
cowed  creature.  She  took  her  place  in  society  as 
Madame  Villefort  in  such  a  manner  as  could  give 
rise  to  no  comment  whatever  ;  only  one  or  two  of 
the  restless  inquisitive  wondered  if  they  had  not 
been  mistaken  in  her.  She  was,  as  I  have  said 
already,  a  childishly  small  and  slight  creature,  — 
the  kind  of  woman  to  touch  one  with  suggestions 
of  helplessness  and  lack  of  will  ;  and  yet,  notwith 
standing  this,  a  celebrated  artist  —  a  shrewd, 
worldly-wise  old  fellow  —  who  had  painted  her  por 
trait,  had  complained  that  he  was  not  satisfied  with 
it  because  he  had  not  done  justice  to  "  the  obsti 
nate  endurance  in  her  eye." 

It  was  to  her  cousin,  Ralph  Eclmondstone,  he 
had  said  this  with  some  degree  of  testiness,  and 
Edmondstone  had  smiled  and  answered  :  — 

"  What !  have  you  found  that  out  ?  Few  people 
do." 

At  the  time  of  the  marriage  Edmondstone  had 
been  in  Rome  singeing  his  wings  in  the  light  of  the 
eyes  of  a  certain  Marchesa  who  was  his  latest  poetic 
passion.  She  was  not  his  first  fancy,  nor  would 
she  be  his  last,  but  she  had  power  enough  for  the 
time  being  to  have  satisfied  the  most  exacting  of 
women. 

He  was  at  his  banker's  when  he  heard  the  news 
spoken  of  as  the  latest  item  from  American  Paris, 


"L£  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."      35 

and  his  start  and  exclamation  of  disgust  drew  forth 
some  cynical  after-comment  from  men  who  envied 
him. 

"  Who  ? "  he  said,  with  indiscreet  impatience. 
"  That  undersized  sphynx  of  a  Villefort  ?  Faugh  !  " 

But  insignificant  though  he  might  be,  it  was  M. 
Villefort  who  had  won,  and  if  he  was  nothing  more, 
he  was  at  least  a  faithful  attendant.  Henceforth, 
those  who  saw  his  wife  invariably  saw  him  also,  — 
driving  with  her  in  her  carriage,  riding  with  her 
courageously  if  ungracefully,  standing  or  seated 
near  her  in  the  shadow  of  her  box  at  the  Nouvelle 
Opera,  silent,  impassive,  grave,  noticeable  only 
through  the  contrast  he  afforded  to  her  girlish 
beauty  and  bloom. 

"  Always  there  !  "  commented  a  sharp  American 
belle  of  mature  years,  "like  an  ugly  little  con 
science." 

Edmondstone's  first  meeting  with  his  cousin  after 
his  return  to  Paris  was  accidental.  He  had  rather 
put  off  visiting  her,  and  one  night,  entering  a  crowd 
ed  room,  he  found  himself  standing  behind  a  girl's 
light  figure  and  staring  at  an  abundance  of  red 
dish-brown  hair.  When,  almost  immediately  the 
pretty  head  to  which  this  hair  belonged  turned  with 
a  slow,  yet  involuntary-looking  movement  toward 
him,  he  felt  that  he  became  excited  without  know 
ing  why. 

"Ah,  Bertha  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  smiled  a  little  and  held  out  her  hand,  and  he 


36     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME:1 

immediately  became  conscious  of  M.  Villefort  be 
ing  quite  near  and  regarding  him  seriously. 

It  was  the  perverseness  of  fate  that  he  should 
find  in  Bertha  Villefort  even  more  than  he  had 
once  seen  in  Bertha  Trent,  and  there  had  been  a 
time  when  he  had  seen  a  great  deal  in  Bertha 
Trent.  In  the  Trent  household  he  had  been  a 
great  favorite.  No  social  evening  or  family  festiv 
ity  had  seemed  complete  without  his  presence. 
The  very  children  had  felt  that  they  had  a  claim 
upon  his  good-humor,  and  his  tendency  to  break 
forth  into  whimsical  frolic.  Good  Mrs.  Trent  had 
been  wont  to  scold  him  and  gossip  with  him.  He 
had  read  his  sonnets  and  metaphysical  articles  to 
Bertha,  and  occasionally  to  the  rest ;  in  fact,  his 
footing  in  the  family  was  familiar  and  firmly  estab 
lished.  But  since  her  marriage  Bertha  had  be 
come  a  little  incomprehensible,  and  on  that  ac 
count  a  little  more  interesting.  He  was  sure  she 
had  developed,  but  could  not  make  out  in  what 
direction.  He  found  occasion  to  reproach  her 
sometimes  with  the  changes  he  found  in  her. 

"  There  are  times  when  I  hardly  know  you,"  he 
would  say,  "  you  are  so  finely  orthodox  and  well 
controlled.  It  was  not  so  with  you  once,  Bertha. 
Don't  —  don't  become  that  terrible  thing,  a  fine 
lady,  and  worse  still,  a  fine  lady  who  is  destl- 
lusionee" 

It  baffled  him  that  she  never  appeared  much 
moved  by  his  charges.  Certainly  she  lived  the 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME:1     37 

life  of  a  "fine  lady,"  —  a  brilliant  life,  a  luxurious 
one,  a  life  full  of  polite  dissipation.  Once,  when 
in  a  tenderly  fraternal  mood,  he  reproached  her 
with  this  also,  she  laughed  at  him  frankly. 

"  It  is  absinthe,"  she  said.  "  It  is  my  absinthe 
at  least,  and  who  does  not  drink  a  little  absinthe — • 
of  one  kind  or  another  ?  " 

He  was  sincerely  convinced  that  from  this  mo- 
ment  he  understood  and  had  the  right  to  pity  and 
watch  over  her.  He  went  oftener  to  see  her.  In  her 
presence  he  studied  her  closely,  absent  he  brooded 
over  her.  He  became  impatiently  intolerant  of  M. 
Villefort,  and  prone  to  condemn  him,  he  scarcely 
knew  for  what. 

"He  has  no  dignity — no  perception,"  was  his 
mental  decision.  "  He  has  riot  even  the  delicacy 
to  love  her,  or  he  would  have  the  tenderness  to 
sacrifice  his  own  feelings  and  leave  her  to  herself. 
I  could  do  it  for  a  woman  I  loved." 

But  M.  Villefort  was  always  there,  —  gravely 
carrying  the  shawls,  picking  up  handkerchiefs,  and 
making  himself  useful. 

"Imbecile!"  muttered  M.  Renard  under  cover 
of  his  smile  and  his  mustache,  as  he  stood  near  his 
venerable  patroness  the  first  time  she  met  the 
Villeforts. 

"  Blockhead  !  "  stealthily  ejaculated  that  amiable 
aristocrat.  But  though  she  looked  grimly  at  M. 
Villefort,  M.  Renard  was  uncomfortably  uncertain 
that  it  was  he  to  whom  she  referred. 


38     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  Go  and  bring  them  to  me,"  she  commanded. 
"  Go  and  bring  them  to  me  before  some  one  else 
engages  them.  I  want  to  talk  to  that  girl." 

It  was  astonishing  how  agreeable  she  made  her 
self  to  her  victims  when  she  had  fairly  entrapped 
them.  Bertha  hesitated  a  little  before  accepting 
her  offer  of  a  seat  at  her  side,  but  once  seated  she 
found  herself  oddly  amused.  When  Madame  de 
Castro  chose  to  rake  the  embers  of  her  seventy 
years,  many  a  lively  coal  discovered  itself  among 
the  ashes. 

Seeing  the  two  women  together,  Edmondstone 
shuddered  in  fastidious  protest. 

u  How  could  you  laugh  at  that  detestable  old 
woman  ?  "  he  exclaimed  on  encountering  Bertha 
later  in  the  evening.  "  I  wonder  that  M.  Ville- 
fort  would  permit  her  to  talk  to  you.  She  is  a 
wicked,  cynical  creature,  who  has  the  hardihood  to 
laugh  at  her  sins  instead  of  repenting  of  them." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  she  is  so  amusing," 
said  Bertha. 

Edmondstone  answered  her  with  gentle  mourn- 
fulness. 

"  What !  "  he  said.  "  Have  you  begun  to  say 
such  things  ?  You  too,  Bertha  "  — 

The  laugh  with  which  she  stopped  him  was  both 
light  and  hard. 

"  Where  is  M.  Villefort  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  have 
actually  not  seen  him  for  fifteen  minutes.  Is  it 
possible  that  Madame  de  Castro  has  fascinated 
him  into  forgetting  me  ?  " 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     39 

Edmondstone  went  to  his  hotel  that  night  in  a 
melancholy  mood.  He  even  lay  awake  to  think 
what  a  dreary  mistake  his  cousin's  marriage  was. 
She  had  been  such  a  tender  and  easily  swayed 
little  soul  as  a  girl,  and  now  it  really  seemed  as  if 
she  was  hardening  into  a  woman  of  the  world.  In 
the  old  times  he  had  been  wont  to  try  his  sonnets 
upon  Bertha  as  a  musician  tries  his  chords  upon 
his  most  delicate  instrument.  Even  now  he  re 
membered  certain  fine,  sensitive  expressions  of  hers 
which  had  thrilled  him  beyond  measure. 

"  How  could  she  marry  such  a  fellow  as  that  — 
how  could  she  ? "  he  groaned.  "  What  does  it 
mean  ?  It  must  mean  something." 

He  was  pale  and  heavy-eyed  when  he  wandered 
round  to  the  Villeforts'  the  following  morning.  M. 
Villefort  was  sitting  with  Bertha  and  reading  aloud. 
He  stopped  to  receive  their  visitor  punctiliously 
and  inquire  after  his  health. 

"  M.  Edmondstone  cannot  have  slept  well,"  he 
remarked. 

"  I  did  not  sleep  at  all,"  Edmondstone  answered, 
"  and  naturally  have  a  headache." 

Bertha  pointed  to  a  wide  lounge  of  the  pouf 
order. 

"  Then  go  to  sleep  now,"  she  said ;  "  M.  Ville 
fort  will  read.  When  I  have  a  headache  he  often 
reads  me  to  sleep,  and  I  am  always  better  on 
awaking." 

Involuntarily  Edmondstone    half   frowned.     Ab- 


40     "LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME:' 

surdly  enough,  he  resented  in  secret  this  amiability 
on  the  part  of  M.  Villefort  toward  his  own  wife. 
He  was  quite  prepared  to  be  severe  upon  the  read 
ing,  but  was  surprised  to  be  compelled  to  acknowl 
edge  that  M.  Villefort  read  wondrously  well,  and 
positively  with  hints  of  delicate  perception.  His 
voice  was  full  and  yet  subtly  flexible.  Edmond- 
stone  tried  to  protest  against  this  also,  but  use 
lessly.  Finally  he  was  soothed,  and  from  being 
fretfully  wide-awake  suddenly  passed  into  sleep  as 
Bertha  had  commanded.  How  long  his  slumber 
lasted  he  could  not  have  told.  All  at  once  he  found 
himself  aroused  and  wide-awake  as  ever.  His  head 
ache  had  departed ;  his  every  sense  seemed  to  have 
gained  keenness.  M.  Villefort's  voice  had  ceased, 
and  for  a  few  seconds  utter,  dead  silence  reigned. 
Then  he  heard  the  fire  crackling,  and  shortly  af 
terward  a  strange,  startling  sound  —  a  sharp,  gasp 
ing  sob  ! 

The  pang  which  seized  upon  him  was  strong 
indeed.  In  one  moment  he  seemed  to  learn  a 
thousand  things  by  intuition  —  to  comprehend  her, 
himself,  the  past.  Before  he  moved  he  knew  that 
Villefort  was  not  in  the  room,  and  he  had  caught  a 
side  glimpse  of  the  pretty  blue  of  Bertha's  dress. 

But  he  had  not  imagined  the  face  he  saw  when 
he  turned  his  head  to  look  at  her.  She  sat  in  a 
rigid  attitude,  leaning  against  tbe  high  cushioned 
back  of  her  chair,  her  hands  clasped  above  her 
head.  She  stared  at  the  fire  with  eyes  wide  and 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME:'     41 

strained  with  the  agony  of  tears  unshed,  and  amid 
the  rush  of  all  other  emotions  he  was  peculiarly 
conscious  of  being  touched  by  the  minor  one  of  his 
recognition  of  her  look  of  extreme  youth  —  the  look 
which  had  been  wont  to  touch  people  in  the  girl, 
Bertha  Trent.  He  had  meant  to  speak  clearly, 
but  his  voice  was  only  a  loud  whisper  when  he 
sprang  up,  uttering  her  name. 

"  Bertha  !  Bertha  !  Bertha  !  "  as  he  flung  him 
self  upon  his  knees  at  her  side. 

Her  answer  was  an  actual  cry,  and  yet  it  reached 
no  higher  pitch  than  his  own  intense  whisper. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep  ?  " 

Her  hands  fell  and  he  caught  them.  His  sad 
impassioned  face  bowed  itself  upon  her  palms. 

"  I  am  awake,  Bertha,"  he  groaned.  "  I  am 
awake  —  at  last." 

She  regarded  him  with  a  piteous,  pitying  glance. 
She  knew  him  with  a  keener,  sadder  knowledge 
than  he  would  ever  comprehend ;  but  she  did  not 
under-estimate  the  depth  of  his  misery  at  this  one 
overwhelming  moment.  He  was  awake  indeed  and 
saw  what  he  had  lost. 

"  If  you  could  but  have  borne  with  me  a  little 
longer,"  he  said.  "  If  I  had  only  not  been  so  shal 
low  and  so  blind.  If  you  could  but  have  borne 
with  me  a  little  longer  !  " 

"  If  I  could  but  have  borne  with  myself  a  little 
longer,"  she  answered.  "If  I  could  but  have 
borne  a  little  longer  with  my  poor,  base  pride  J 


42      "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

Because  I  suffered  myself,  I  have  made  another 
suffer  too." 

He  knew  she  spoke  of  M.  Villefort,  and  the 
thought  jarred  upon  him. 

"  He  does  not  suffer,"  he  said.  "  He  is  not  of 
the  fibre  to  feel  pain." 

And  he  wondered  why  she  shrank  from  him  a 
little,  and  answered  with  a  sad  bitterness  :  — 

"  Are  you  sure  ?     You  did  not  know  that  I  "  — 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  brokenly,  the  face  he 
lifted,  haggard  with  his  unhappiness.  "Forgive 
me,  for  I  have  lost  so  much." 

She  wasted  few  words  and  no  tears.  The  force 
and  suddenness  of  his  emotion  and  her  own  had 
overborne  her  into  this  strange  unmeant  confes 
sion  ;  but  her  mood  was  unlike  his,,  —  it  was  merely 
receptive.  She  listened  to  his  unavailing  regrets, 
but  told  him  little  of  her  own  past. 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  she  said  drearily.  "  It  is 
all  over.  Let  it  rest.  The  pain  of  to-day  and  to 
morrow  is  enough  for  us.  We  have  borne  yester 
day  ;  why  should  we  want  it  back  again  ?  " 

And  when  they  parted  she  said  only  one  thing  of 
the  future  :  — 

"  There  is  no  need  that  we  should  talk.  There 
is  nothing  for  us  beyond  this  point.  We  can  only 
go  back.  We  must  try  to  forget  —  and  be  satisfied 
with  our  absinthe." 

Instead  of  returning  to  his  hotel,  Edmondstone 
found  his  way  to  the  Champs  filysees,  and  finally 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."    43 

to  the  Bois.  He  was  too  wretched  to  have  any 
purpose  in  his  wanderings.  He  walked  rapidly, 
looking  straight  before  him  and  seeing  nobody. 
He  scarcely  understood  his  own  fierce  emotions. 
Hitherto  his  fancies  had  brought  him  a  vague 
rapture ;  now  he  experienced  absolute  anguish. 
Every  past  experience  had  become  trivial.  What 
happiness  is  so  keen  as  one's  briefest  pain  ?  As 
he  walked  he  lived  again  the  clays  he  had  thrown 
away.  He  remembered  a  thousand  old,  yet  new, 
phases  of  Bertha's  girlhood.  He  thought  of  times 
when  she  had  touched  or  irritated  or  pleased  him. 
When  he  had  left  Paris  for  Rome  she  had  not  bid 
den  him  good-by.  Jenny,  her  younger  sister,  had 
told  him  that  she  was  not  well. 

"  If  I  had  seen  her  then,"  he  cried  inwardly,  "  I 
might  have  read  her  heart  —  and  my  own." 

M.  Renard,  riding  a  very  tall  horse  in  the  Bois, 
passed  him  and  raised  his  eyebrows  at  the  sight  of 
his  pallor  and  his  fagged  yet  excited  look. 

"  There  will  be  a  new  sonnet,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "A  sonnet  to  Despair,  or  Melancholy,  or 
Loss." 

Afterward,  when  society  became  a  little  restive 
and  eager,  M.  Renard  looked  on  with  sardonic 
interest. 

"That  happy  man,  M.  Villefort,"  he  said  to 
Madame  de  Castro,  "  is  a  good  soul  —  a  good  soul. 
He  has  no  small  jealous  follies,"  and  his  smile  was 
scarcely  a  pleasant  thing  to  see. 


44     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  us  beyond  this  past," 
Bertha  had  said,  and  Edmondstone  had  agreed  with 
her  hopelessly. 

But  he  could  not  quite  break  away.  Sometimes 
for  a  week  the  Villeforts  missed  him,  and  then 
again  they  saw  him  every  day.  He  spent  his 
mornings  with  them,  joined  them  in  their  drives, 
at  their  opera-box,  or  at  the  entertainments  of  their 
friends.  He  also  fell  into  his  old  place  in  the 
Trent  household,  and  listened  with  a  vague  effort 
at  interest  to  Mrs.  Trent's  maternal  gossip  about 
the  boys'  college  expenses,  Bertha's  household,  and 
Jenny's  approaching  social  debut.  He  was  continu 
ally  full  of  a  feverish  longing  to  hear  of  Bertha,  — 
to  hear  her  name  spoken,  her  ingoings  and  out- 
comings  discussed,  her  looks,  her  belongings. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  Mrs.  Trent,  as  the  winter 
advanced,  "  I  am  anxious  about  Bertha.  She  does 
not  look  strong.  I  don't  know  why  I  have  not 
seen  it  before,  but  all  at  once  I  found  out  yester 
day  that  she  is  really  thin.  She  was  always  slight 
and  even  a  little  fragile,  but  now  she  is  actually 
thin.  One  can  see  the  little  bones  in  her  wrists 
and  fingers.  Her  rings  and  her  bracelets  slip 
about  quite  loosely." 

"And  talking  of  being  thin,  mother,"  cried  Jenny, 
who  was  a  frank,  bright  sixteen-year-old,  "  look  at 
cousin  Ralph  himself.  He  has  little  hollows  in 
his  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  are  as  much  too  big  as 
Bertha's.  Is  the  sword  wearing  out  the  scabbard, 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     45 

Ralph  ?  That  is  what  they  always  say  about 
geniuses,  you  know." 

"  Ralph  has  not  looked  well  for  some  time,"  said 
Mrs.  Trent.  "As  for  Bertha,  I  think  I  shall  scold 
her  a  little,  and  M.  Villefort  too.  She  has  been 
living  too  exciting  a  life.  She  is  out  continually. 
She  must  stay  at  home  more  and  rest.  It  is  rest 
she  needs." 

"  If  you  tell  Arthur  that  Bertha  looks  ill  "  —be 
gan  Jenny. 

Edmondstone  turned  toward  her  sharply.  "Ar 
thur  !  "  he  repeated.  "  Who  is  Arthur  ?  " 

Mrs.  Trent  answered  with  a  comfortable  laugh. 

"It  is  M.  Villefort's  name,"  she  said,  "though 
none  of  us  call  him  Arthur  but  Jenny.  Jenny  and 
he  are  great  friends." 

"  I  like  him  better  than  any  one  else,"  said 
Jenny  stoutly.  "And  I  wish  to  set  a  good  exam 
ple  to  Bertha,  who  never  calls  him  anything  but 
M.  Villefort,  which  is  absurd.  Just  as  if  they  had 
been  introduced  to  each  other  about  a  week  ago." 

"  I  always  hear  him  address  her  as  Madame  Ville 
fort,"  reflected  Edmondstone,  somewhat  gloomily. 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  answered  Jenny,  "  that  is  his  French 
way  of  studying  her  fancies.  He  would  consider 
it  taking  an  unpardonable  liberty  to  call  her  '  Ber 
tha,'  since  she  only  favors  him  with  '  M.  Villefort.' 
I  said  to  him  only  the  other  day,  '  Arthur,  you  are 
the  oddest  couple !  You're  so  grand  and  well-be 
haved,  I  cannot  imagine  you  scolding  Bertha  a  little, 


46     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

and  I  have  never  seen  you  kiss  her  since  you  were 
married.'     I  was  half  frightened  after  I  had  said  it. 
He  started  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  turned  as, 
pale  as  death.     I  really  felt  as  if  I  had  done  some 
thing  frightfully  improper." 

"The  French  are  so  different  from  the  Ameri 
cans,"  said  Mrs.  Trent,  "particularly  those  of  M. 
Villefort's  class.  They  are  beautifully  punctilious, 
but  I  don't  call  it  quite  comfortable,  you  know." 

Her  mother  was  not  the  only  person  who  noticed 
a  change  in  Bertha  Villefort.  Before  long  it  was 
a  change  so  marked  that  all  who  saw  her  observed 

o 

it.  She  had  become  painfully  frail  and  slight. 
Her  face  looked  too  finely  cut,  her  eyes  had 
shadowy  hollows  under  them,  and  were  always 
bright  with  a  feverish  excitement. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  wife  ?  "  demanded 
Madame  de  Castro  of  M.  Villefort.  Since  their 
first  meeting  she  had  never  loosened  her  hold  upon 
the  husband  and  wife,  and  had  particularly  culti 
vated  Bertha. 

There  was  no  change  in  the  expression  of  M. 
Villefort,  but  he  was  strangely  pallid  as  he  made 
his  reply. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  explain,  Madame." 

"  She  is  absolutely  attenuated,"  cried  Madame. 
"  She  is  like  a  spirit.  Take  her  to  the  country  — 
to  Normandy  —  to  the  sea  —  somewhere!  She 
will  die  if  there  is  not  a  change.  At  twenty,  one 
should  be  as  plump  as  a  young  capon." 


"LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     47 

A  few  days  after  this,  Jenny  Trent  ran  in  upon 
Bertha  as  she  lay  upon  a  lounge,  holding  an  open 
book,  but  with  closed  eyes.  She  had  come  to 
spend  the  morning,  she  announced.  She  wanted 
to  talk  —  about  people,  about  her  dress,  about  her 
first  ball  which  was  to  come  off  shortly. 

"  And  Arthur  says  "  —  she  began. 

Bertha  turned  her  head  almost  as  Edmondstone 
had  done. 

"  Arthur  !  "   she  repeated. 

For  the  second  time  Jenny  felt  a  little  em 
barrassed.  "I  mean  M.  Villefort,"  she  said,  hesi 
tantly. 

She  quite  forgot  what  she  had  been  going  to  say, 
and  for  a  moment  or  so  regarded  the  fire  quite 
gravely.  But  naturally  this  could  not  last  long. 
She  soon  began  to  talk  again,  and  it  was  not  many 
minutes  before  she  found  M.  Villefort  in  her  path 
once  more. 

"  I  never  thought  I  could  like  a  Frenchman  so 
much,"  she  said,  in  all  enthusiastic  good  faith. 
"  At  first,  you  know,"  with  an  apologetic  half  laugh, 
"  I  wondered  why  you  had  not  taken  an  American 
instead,  when  there  were  so  many  to  choose  from, 
but  now  I  understand  it.  What  beautiful  tender 
things  he  can  say,  Bertha,  and  yet  not  seem  in  the 
least  sentimental.  Everything  comes  so  simply 
right  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  Just  think 
what  he  said  to  me  yesterday  when  he  brought  me 
those  flowers.  He  helps  me  with  mine,  and  it  is 


48     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

odd  how  things  will  cheer  up  and  grow  for  him. 
I  said  to  him,  'Arthur,  how  is  it  that  no  flower  ever 
fails  you  ? '  and  he  answered  in  the  gentlest  quiet 
way,  '  Perhaps  because  I  never  fail  them.  Flowers 
are  like  people,  —  one  must  love  and  be  true  to 
them,  not  only  to-day  and  to-morrow,  but  every  day 

—  every  hour  —  always.'     And  he  says  such  things 
so  often.     That  is  why  I  am  so  fond  of  him." 

As  she  received  no  reply,  she  turned  toward  the 
lounge.  Bertha  lay  upon  it  motionless  and  silent, 

—  only    a    large    tear    trembled    on    her    cheek. 
Jenny  sprung   up,  shocked  and    checked,  and  went 
to  her. 

"  Oh,  Bertha !  "  she  cried,  "  how  thoughtless  I 
am  to  tire  you  so,  you  poor  little  soul !  Is  it  true 
that  you  are  so  weak  as  all  that  ?  I  heard  mamma 
and  Arthur  talking  about  it,  but  I  scarcely  believed 
it.  They  said  you  must  go  to  Normandy  and  be 
nursed." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Normandy,"  said  Bertha. 
"I  —  I  am  too  tired.  I  only  want  to  lie  still  and 
rest.  I  have  been  out  too  much." 

Her  voice,  however,  was  so  softly  weak  that  in 
the  most  natural  manner  Jenny  was  subdued  into 
shedding  a  few  tears  also,  and  kissed  her  fervently. 

"Oh,  Bertha!"  she  said,  "you  must  do  anything 

—  anything  that  will  make  you  well  —  if  it  is  only 
for  Arthur's  sake.     He  loves  you  so  —  so  terribly." 

Whereupon  Bertha  laughed  a  little  hysterically. 
"Does  he,"  she  said,   "love  me  so  'terribly?' 
Poor  M.  Villefort  ?  " 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     49 

She  did  not  go  to  Normandy,  however,  and  still 
went  into  society,  though  not  as  much  as  had  been 
her  habit.  When  she  spent  her  evenings  at  home, 
some  of  her  own  family  generally  spent  them  with 
her,  and  M.  Villefort  or  Edmondstone  read  aloud 
or  talked. 

In  fact,  Edmondstone  came  oftener  than  ever. 
His  anxiety  and  unhappiness  grew  upon  him,  and 
made  him  moody,  irritable,  and  morbid. 

One  night,  when  M.  Villefort  had  left  them  alone 
together  for  a  short  time,  he  sprang  from  his  chair 
and  came  to  her  couch,  shaken  with  suppressed 
emotion. 

"  That  man  is  killing  you ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"You  are  dying  by  inches  !  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

"  It  is  not  he  who  is  killing  me,"  she  answered ; 
and  then  M.  Villefort  returned  to  the  room  with 
the  book  he  had  been  in  search  of. 

In  this  case  Edmondstone's  passion  took  new 
phases.  He  wrote  no  sonnets,  painted  no  pictures. 
He  neglected  his  work,  and  spent  his  idle  hours  in 
rambling  here  and  there  in  a  gloomy,  unsociable 
fashion. 

"  He  looks,"  said  M.  Renard,  "  as  if  his  soul 
had  been  playing  him  some  evil  trick." 

He  had  at  first  complained  that  Bertha  had 
taken  a  capricious  fancy  to  Madame  de  Castro, 
but  in  course  of  time  he  found  his  way  to  the  old 
woman's  salon  too,  though  it  must  be  confessed 
that  Madame  herself  never  showed  him  any  great 
4 


50     "LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

favor.  But  this  he  did  not  care  for.  He  only 
cared  to  sit  in  the  same  room  with  Bertha,  and 
watch  her  every  movement  with  a  miserable  ten 
derness. 

One  night,  after  regarding  him  cynically  for 
some  time,  Madame  broke  out  to  Bertha  with 
small  ceremony :  — 

"What  a  fool  that  young  man  is!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  He  sits  and  fairly  devours  you  with  his 
eyes.  It  is  bad  taste  to  show  such  an  insane  pas 
sion  for  a  married  woman." 

It  seemed  as  if  Bertha  lost  at  once  her  breath 
and  every  drop  of  blood  in  her  body,  for  she  had 
neither  breath  nor  color  when  she  turned  and 
looked  Madame  de  Castro  in  the  face. 

"Madame,"  she  said,  "if  you  repeat  that  to  me, 
you  will  never  see  me  again  —  never  !  " 

Upon  which  Madame  snapped  her  up  with  some 
anger  at  being  so  rebuked  for  her  frankness. 

**  Then  it  is  worse  than  I  thought,"  she  said. 

It  was  weeks  before  she  saw  her  young  friend 
again.  Indeed,  it  required  some  clever  diplomacy 
to  heal  the  breach  made,  and  even  in  her  most 
amusing  and  affectionate  moods,  she  often  felt  af 
terward  that  she  was  treated  with  a  reserve  which 
held  her  at  arm's  length. 

By  the  time  the  horse-chestnuts  bloomed  pink 
and  white  on  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees, 
there  were  few  people  in  the  Trent  and  Villefort 
circles  who  had  not  their  opinions  on  the  subject 
of  Madame  Villefort  and  her  cousin. 


«  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     5  I 

There  was  a  mixture  of  French  and  American 
gossip  and  comment,  frank  satire,  or  secret  remark. 
But  to  her  credit  be  it  spoken,  Madame  de  Castro 
held  grim  silence,  and  checked  a  rumor  occasion 
ally  with  such  amiable  ferocity  as  was  not  without 
its  good  effect. 

The  pink  and  white  blossoms  were  already  be 
ginning  to  strew  themselves  at  the  feet  of  the  pe 
destrians,  when  one  morning  M.  Villefort  presented 
himself  to  Madame,  and  discovered  her  sitting 
alone  in  the  strangest  of  moods. 

"  I  thought  I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  driv 
ing  home  with  Madame  Villefort.  My  servant  in 
formed  me  that  I  should  find  her  here." 

Madame  de  Castro  pointed  to  a  chair. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  commanded. 

M.  Villefort  obeyed  her  in  some  secret  but  well- 
concealed  amazement.  He  saw  that  she  was  under 
the  influence  of  some  unusual  excitement.  Her 
false  front  was  pushed  fantastically  away,  her  rouge 
and  powder  were  rubbed  off  in  patches,  her  face 
looked  set  and  hard.  Her  first  words  were  abom 
inably  blunt. 

"  M.  Villefort,"  she  said,  "  do  you  know  what 
your  acquaintances  call  you  ? " 

A  deep  red  rose  slowly  to  his  face,  but  he  did 
not  answer. 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  designated  by  them 
by  an  absurd  title  —  that  they  call  you  in  ridicule 
'  Le  Monsieur  de  la  petite  Dame  ? '  Do  you  know 
that  ? " 


52     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

His  look  was  incomprehensible,  but  he  bowed 
gravely. 

"  Madame,"  he  answered,  "  since  others  have 
heard  the  title  so  often,  it  is  but  natural  that  I  my 
self  should  have  heard  it  more  than  once." 

She  regarded  him  in  angry  amazement.  She 
was  even  roused  to  rapping  upon  the  floor  with  her 
gold-headed  cane. 

"  Does  it  not  affect  you  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Does  it 
not  move  you  to  indignation  ?  " 

"That,  Madame,"  he  replied,  "can  only  be  my 
affair.  My  friends  will  allow  me  my  emotions  at 
least." 

Then  she  left  her  chair  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down,  striking  the  carpet  hard  with  her  cane 
at  every  step. 

"  You  are  a  strange  man,"  she  remarked. 

Suddenly,  however,  when  just  on  the  point  of 
starting  upon  a  fresh  tour,  she  wheeled  about  and 
addressed  him  sharply. 

"  I  respect  you,"  she  said ;  "  and  because  I  re 
spect  you,  I  will  do  you  a  good  turn." 

She  made  no  pretense  at  endeavoring  to  soften 
the  blow  she  was  about  to  bestow.  She  drew  forth 
from  her  dress  a  letter,  the  mere  sight  of  which 
seemed  to  goad  her  to  a  mysterious  excitement. 

"  See,"  she  cried  ;  "  it  was  M.  Ralph  Edmond- 
stone  who  wrote  this, — it  was  to  Madame  Ville- 
fort  it  was  written.  It  means  ruin  and  dishonor. 
I  offer  it  to  you  to  read." 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     53 

M.  Villefort  rose  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
chair  to  steady  himself. 

"Madame,"  he  answered,  "I  will  not  touch  it." 

She  struck  herself  upon  her  withered  breast. 

"  Behold  me  !  "  she  said.  "  Me  !  I  am  seventy 
years  old  !  Good  God  !  seventy  !  I  am  a  bad  old 
woman,  and  it  is  said  I  do  not  repent  of  my  sins. 
I,  too,  have  been  a  beautiful  young  girl.  I,  too, 
had  my  first  lover.  I,  too,  married  a  man  who  had 
not  won  my  heart.  It  does  not  matter  that  the 
husband  was  worthy  and  the  lover  was  not,  —  one 
learns  that  too  late.  My  fate  was  what  your  wife's 
will  be  if  you  will  not  sacrifice  your  pride  and  save 
her." 

"  Pride ! ';  he  echoed  in  a  bitter,  hollow  voice. 
"  My  pride,  Madame  !  " 

She  went  on  without  noticing  him  :  — 

"  They  have  been  here  this  morning  —  both  of 
them.  He  followed  her,  as  he  always  does.  He 
had  a  desperate  look  which  warned  me.  Afterward 
I  found  the  note  upon  the  floor.  Now  will  you 
read  it  ? " 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  cried,  as  he  fell  into  his  chair 
again,  his  brow  sinking  into  his  hands. 

"  I  have  read  it,"  said  Madame,  with  a  tragic 
gesture,  "  and  I  choose  to  place  one  stumbling- 
block  in  the  path  that  would  lead  her  to  an  old  age 
like  mine.  I  do  not  like  your  Americans ;  but  I 
have  sometimes  seen  in  her  girl's  face  a  proud, 
heroic  endurance  of  the  misery  she  has  brought 


54     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME? 

upon  herself,  and  it  has  moved  me.  And  this  let 
ter  —  you  should  read  it,  to  see  how  such  a  man 
can  plead.  It  is  a  passionate  cry  of  despair  —  it  is 
a  poem  in  itself.  I,  myself,  read  it  with  sobs  in 
my  throat  and  tears  in  my  eyes.  '  If  you  love 
me  !  —  if  you  have  ever  loved  me  ! '  he  cries,  '  for 
God's  sake!  —  for  love's  sake!  —  if  there  is  love 
on  earth  —  if  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  you  will 
not  let  me  implore  you  in  vain  ! '  And  his  prayer 
is  that  she  will  leave  Paris  with  him  to-night  — 
to-night !  There !  Monsieur,  I  have  done.  Be 
hold  the  letter!  Take  it  or  leave  it,  as  you 
please."  And  she  flung  it  upon  the  floor  at  his 
feet. 

She  paused  a  moment,  wondering  what  he  would 
do. 

He  bent  down  and  picked  the  letter  up. 

"  I  will  take  it,"  he  said. 

All  at  once  he  had  become  calm,  and  when  he 
rose  and  uttered  his  last  words  to  her,  there  was 
upon  his  face  a  faint  smile. 

"I,  too,"  he  said,  —  "I,  too,  Madame,  suffer 
from  a  mad  and  hopeless  passion,  and  thus  can 
comprehend  the  bitterness  of  M.  Edmondstone's 
pangs.  I,  too,  would  implore  in  the  name  of  love 
and  God,  —  if  I  might,  but  I  may  not."  And  so 
he  took  his  departure. 

Until  evening  Bertha  did  not  see  him.  The 
afternoon  she  spent  alone  and  in  writing  letters, 
and  having  completed  and  sealed  the  last,  she  went 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     55 

to  her  couch  and  tried  to  sleep.  One  entering  the 
room,  as  she  lay  upon  the  violet  cushions,  her 
hands  at  her  sides,  her  eyes  closed,  might  well 
have  been  shocked.  Her  spotless  pallor,  the  fine 
sharpness  of  her  face,  the  shadows  under  her  eyes, 
her  motionlessness,  would  have  excused  the  mo 
mentary  feeling.  But  she  was  up  and  dressed 
for  dinner  when  M.  Villefort  presented  himself. 
Spring  though  it  was,  she  was  attired  in  a  high, 
close  dress  of  black  velvet,  and  he  found  her  al 
most  cowering  over  the  open  fire-place.  Strangely 
enough,  too,  she  fancied  that  when  she  looked  up 
at  him  she  saw  him  shiver,  as  if  he  were  struck 
with  a  slight  chill  also. 

"You  should  not  wear  that,"  he  said,  with  a  half 
smile  at  her  gown. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  makes  you  so  white  —  so  much  like  a  too 
early  lily.  But  —  but  perhaps  you  thought  of  going 
out  ? " 

"  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  not  to-night." 

He  came  quite  close  to  her. 

"  If  you  are  not  too  greatly  fatigued,"  he  said, 
"  it  would  give  me  happiness  to  take  you  with  me 
on  my  errand  to  your  mother's  house.  I  must 
carry  there  my  little  birthday  gift  to  your  sister," 
smiling  again. 

An  expression  of  embarrassment  showed  itself 
upon  her  face. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "  to  think  that  I  had  for- 


56     "LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

gotten  it !  She  will  feel  as  if  I  did  not  care  for  her 
at  all." 

She  seemed  for  the  moment  quite  unhappy. 

"  Let  me  see  what  you  have  chosen." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  case  and  opened  it. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "how  pretty  and  how  suitable 
for  a  girl !  " 

They  were  the  prettiest,  most  airy  set  of  pearls 
imaginable. 

She  sat  and  looked  at  them  for  a  few  seconds 
thoughtfully,  and  then  handed  them  back. 

"  You  are  very  good,  and  Jenny  will  be  in  ecsta 
sies,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  a  happiness  to  me  to  give  her  pleasure," 
he  returned.  "I  feel  great  tenderness  for  her. 
She  is  not  like  the  young  girls  I  have  known. 
Her  innocence  is  of  a  frank  and  noble  quality, 
which  is  better  than  ignorance.  One  could  not 
bear  that  the  slightest  shadow  of  sin  or  pain  should 
fall  upon  her.  The  atmosphere  surrounding  her  is 
so  bright  with  pure  happiness  and  the  courage  of 
youth." 

Involuntarily  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Will  you  "  —  he  began.  His  voice  fell  and 
broke.  "Will  you  go  with  me  ?"  he  ended. 

He  saw  that  she  was  troubled. 

"  Now  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Yes  —  now." 

There  was  a  peculiar  pause,  —  a  moment,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  of  breathless  silence.  This  silence 
she  broke  by  her  rising  slowly  from  her  seat. 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."      57 

"  Yes,"  she  responded,  "  I  will  go.     Why  should 
I  not  ? " 


It  was  midnight  when  they  left  the  Trents',  and 
Jenny  stood  upon  the  threshold,  a  bright  figure  in 
a  setting  of  brightness,  and  kissed  her  hand  to  them 
as  they  went  down  the  steps. 

'-I  hope  you  will  be  better  to-morrow,  Arthur," 
she  said. 

He  turned  quickly  to  look  up  at  her. 

"I  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  look  so  tired.  I  might  say  haggard, 
if  it  was  polite." 

"  Tt  would  not  be  polite,"  said  Bertha,  "  so  don't 
say  it.  Good-night,  Jenny  !  " 

But  when  they  were  seated  in  the  carriage  she 
glanced  at  her  husband's  face. 

"Are  you  unwell  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  passed  his  hand  quickly  across  his  forehead. 

"  A  little  fatigued,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  nothing. 
To-morrow — to-morrow  it  will  be  all  over." 

And  so  silence  fell  upon  them. 

As  they  entered  the  drawing-room  a  clock  chimed 
the  half  hour. 

"  So  late  as  that ! "  exclaimed  Bertha,  and  sank 
into  a  chair  with  a  faint  laugh.  "  Why,  to-day  is 
over,"  she  said.  "  It  is  to-morrow." 

M.  Villefort  had  approached  a  side  table.  Upon 
it  lay  a  peculiar-looking  oblong  box. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  softly,  "  they  have  arrived." 


58     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  Bertha  asked. 

He  was  bending  over  the  box  to  open  it,  and  did 
not  turn  toward  her,  as  he  replied :  — 

"It  is  a  gift  for  a  young  friend  of  mine,  —  a 
brace  of  pistols.  He  has  before  him  a  long  jour 
ney  in  the  East,  and  he  is  young  enough  to  have  a 
fancy  for  firearms." 

He  was  still  examining  the  weapons  when  Bertha 
crossed  the  room  on  her  way  up-stairs,  and  she 
paused  an  instant  to  look  at  them. 

"  They  are  very  handsome,"  she  said.  "  One 
could  almost  wear  them  as  ornaments." 

"  But  they  would  have  too  threatening  a  look," 
he  answered,  lightly. 

As  he  raised  his  eyes  they  met  hers.  She  half 
started  backward,  moved  by  a  new  sense  of  the 
haggardness  of  his  face. 

"  You  are  ill !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  are  as 
colorless  as  marble." 

"  And  you,  too,"  he  returned,  still  with  the  same 
tender  lightness.  **  Let  us  hope  that  our  '  to-mor 
row  '  will  find  us  both  better,  and  you  say  it  is  to 
morrow  now.  Good-night !  " 

She  went  away  without  saying  more.  Weary  as 
she  was,  she  knew  there  was  no  sleep  for  her,  and 
after  dismissing  her  maid,  she  threw  herself  upon 
the  lounge  before  the  bedroom  fire  and  lay  there. 
To-night  she  felt  as  if  her  life  had  reached  its 
climax.  She  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Jenny  !  Jenny  !  "  she  cried,  "  how  I  envy  — 
how  I  envy  you  !  " 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     59 

The  recollection  of  Jenny  shining  in  her  pretty 
gala  dress,  and  delighting  in  her  birthday  presents, 
and  everybody  else's  pride  and  affection,  filled  her 
with  a  morbid  misery  and  terror.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  as  she  thought  of  it. 

"  Once,"  she  panted,  "  as  I  looked  at  her  to-night, 
for  a  moment  I  almost  hated  her.  Am  I  so  bad  as 
that  ?  —  am  I  ?  " 

Scarcely  two  seconds  afterward  she  had  sprung 
to  her  feet  and  was  standing  by  the  side  of  her 
couch,  her  heart  beating  with  a  rapid  throb  of 
fright,  her  limbs  trembling.  A  strange  sound  had 
fallen  suddenly  upon  the  perfect  silence  of  the 
night  —  a  sound  loud,  hard,  and  sharp  —  the  report 
of  a  pistol !  What  dread  seized  her  she  knew  not. 
She  was  across  the  room  and  had  wrenched  the 
door  open  in  an  instant,  then  with  flying  feet  down 
the  corridor  and  the  staircase.  But  half  way  down 
the  stairs  she  began  to  cry  out  aloud,  "Arthur! 
Arthur  !  "  not  conscious  of  her  own  voice  —  "  Ar 
thur,  what  is  it?"  The  door  of  the  drawing-room 
flew  open  before  the  fierce  stroke  of  her  palm. 

M.  Villefort  stood  where  she  had  left  him ;  but 
while  his  left  hand  supported  his  weight  against 
the  table,  his  right  was  thrust  into  his  breast.  One 
of  the  pistols  lay  at  his  feet. 

She  thought  it  was  Death's  self  that  confronted 
her  in  his  face,  but  he  spoke  to  her,  trying  faintly 
to  smile. 

"  Do  not  come  in,"  he  said,  "  I  have  met  with  — 


60     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

an  accident.  It  is  nothing.  Do  not  come  in.  A 
servant "  — 

His  last  recollection  was  of  her  white  face  and 
white  draperies  as  he  fell,  and  somehow,  dizzy,  sick, 
and  faint  as  he  was,  he  seemed  to  hear  her  calling 
out,  in  a  voice  strangely  like  Jenny's,  "  Arthur ! 
Arthur ! " 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  the  whole  house  was 
astir.  Up-stairs  physicians  were  with  the  wounded 
man,  down-stairs  Mrs.  Trent  talked  and  wept  over 
her  daughter,  after  the  manner  of  all  good  women. 
She  was  fairly  terrified  by  Bertha's  strange  shud- 
derings,  quick,  strained  breath,  and  dilated  eyes. 
She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  reach  her  —  as  if  she 
hardly  made  herself  heard. 

"You  must  calm  yourself,  Bertha,"  she  would 
say.  "  Try  to  calm  yourself.  We  must  hope  for 
the  best.  Oh,  how  could  it  have  happened  !  " 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  that  a  servant  entered 
with  a  letter,  which  he  handed  to  his  mistress. 
The  envelope  bore  upon  it  nothing  but  her  own 
name. 

She  looked  at  it  with  a  bewildered  expression. 

"  For  me  ?  "  she  said. 

"  It  fell  from  Monsieur's  pocket  as  we  carried 
him  up-stairs,"  replied  the  man. 

"Don't  mind  it  now,  Bertha,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Ah,  poor  M.  Villefort !  " 

But  Bertha  had  opened  it  mechanically  and  was 
reading  it. 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     6 1 

At  first  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  have  been  written 
in  a  language  she  did  not  understand ;  but  after 
the  first  few  sentences  a  change  appeared.  Her 
breath  came  and  went  more  quickly  than  before  — 
a  kind  of  horror  grew  in  her  eyes.  At  the  last  she 
uttered  a  low,  struggling  cry.  The  paper  was 
crushed  in  her  hand,  she  cast  one  glance  around 
the  room  as  if  in  bewildering  search  for  refuge,  and 
flung  herself  upon  her  mother's  breast. 

"  Save  me,  mother  !  "  she  said.  "  Help  me  !  If 
he  dies  now,  I  shall  go  mad !  " 

Afterward,  in  telling  her  story  at  home,  good 
Mrs.  Trent  almost  broke  down. 

"  Oh,  Jenny  !  "  she  said.  "Just  to  think  of  the 
poor  fellow's  having  had  it  in  his  pocket  then !  Of 
course  I  did  not  see  it,  but  one  can  fancy  that  it 
was  something  kind  and  tender,  —  perhaps  some 
little  surprise  he  had  planned  for  her.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  could  not  bear  it." 

M.  Villefort's  accident  was  the  subject  of  discus 
sion  for  many  days.  He  had  purchased  a  wonder 
ful  pair  of  pistols  as  a  gift  for  a  young  friend. 
How  it  had  happened  that  one  had  been  loaded 
none  knew ;  it  was  just  possible  that  he  had  been 
seized  with  the  whim  to  load  it  himself  —  at  all 
events,  it  had  gone  off  in  his  hands.  An  inch  — 
nay,  half  an  inch  —  to  the  right,  and  Madame  Vil- 
lefort,  who  flew  down-stairs  at  the  sound  of  the 
report,  would  only  have  found  a  dead  man  at  her 
feet. 


62     "  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  Mafoi  /"  said  M.  Renard,  repressing  his  smile ; 
"  this  is  difficult  for  Monsieur,  but  it  may  leave  '  la 
petite  riame '  at  liberty." 

Madame  de  Castro  flew  at  him  with  flashing 
eyes. 

"  Silence  !  "  she  said,  "  if  you  would  not  have  me 
strike  you  with  my  cane."  And  she  looked  as  if 
she  were  capable  of  doing  it. 

Upon  his  sick-bed  M.  Villefort  was  continually 
haunted  by  an  apparition  —  an  apparition  of  a 
white  face  and  white  draperies,  such  as  he  had 
seen  as  he  fell.  Sometimes  it  was  here,  sometimes 
there,  sometimes  near  him,  and  sometimes  indis 
tinct  and  far  away.  Sometimes  he  called  out  to  it 
and  tried  to  extend  his  arms ;  again  he  lay  and 
watched  it,  murmuring  gentle  words,  and  smiling 
mournfully. 

Mrs.  Trent  and  the  doctor  were  in  despair. 
Madame  Villefort  obstinately  refused  to  be  forced 
from  her  husband's  room.  There  were  times  when 
they  thought  she  might  sink  and  die  there  herself. 
She  would  not  even  leave  it  when  they  obliged  her 
to  sleep.  Having  been  slight  and  frail  from  ill 
health  before,  she  became  absolutely  attenuated. 
Soon  all  her  beauty  would  be  gone. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Trent  to  her  hus 
band,  "  I  have  found  out  that  she  always  carries 
that  letter  in  her  breast  ?  I  see  her  put  her  hand 
to  it  in  the  strangest  way  a  dozen  times  a  day." 

One  night,  awakening  from    a   long  sleep  to  a 


"L£  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  JDAME."     63 

clearer  mental  consciousness  than  usual,  M.  Ville- 
fort  found  his  apparition  standing  over  him. 

She  stood  with  one  hand  clinched  upon  her 
breast,  and  she  spoke  to  him. 

"  Arthur !  "  she  said,  —  "  Arthur,  do  you  know 
me?" 

He  answered  her,  "  Yes." 

She  slipped  down  upon  her  knees,  and  held  up 
in  her  hand  a  letter  crushed  and  broken. 

"  Try  to  keep  your  mind  clear  while  you  listen 
to  me,"  she  implored.  "  Try  —  try  !  I  must  tell 
you,  or  I  shall  die.  I  am  not  the  bad  woman  you 
think  me.  I  never  had  read  it  —  I  had  not  seen 
it.  I  think  he  must  have  been  mad.  Once  I 
loved  him,  but  he  killed  my  love  himself.  I  could 
not  have  been  bad  like  that.  Jenny  !  —  mother  ! 
—  Arthur !  believe  me  !  believe  me  !  " 

In  this  supreme  moment  of  her  anguish  and 
shame  she  forgot  all  else.  She  stretched  forth  her 
hands,  panting. 

"  Believe  me  !  It  is  true  !  Try  to  understand  ! 
Some  one  is  coming  !  Say  one  word  before  it  is 
too  late ! " 

"  I  understand,"  he  whispered,  "  and  I  believe." 
He  made  a  weak  effort  to  touch  her  hand,  but 
failed.  He  thought  that  perhaps  it  was  the  chill 
and  numbness  of  death  which  stole  over  him  and 
held  him  bound.  When  the  nurse,  whose  footsteps 
they  had  heard,  entered,  she  found  him  lying  with 


64     "LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

glazed  eyes,  and  Madame  Villefort  fallen  in  a  swoon 
at  the  bedside. 

And  yet,  from  this  time  forward  the  outside  world 
began  to  hear  that  his  case  was  not  so  hopeless 
after  all. 

"  Villefort  will  possibly  recover,"  it  was  said  at 
first;  then,  "  Villefort  improves,  it  seems;"  and,  at 
last,  "  Villefort  is  out  of  danger.  Who  would  have 
thought  it  ? " 

Nobody,  however,  could  say  that  Madame  had 
kept  pace  with  her  husband.  When  Monsieur  was 
sufficiently  strong  to  travel,  and  was  advised  to  do 
so,  there  were  grave  doubts  as  to  the  propriety  of 
his  wife's  accompanying  him. 

But  she  would  not  listen  to  those  doubts. 

"  I  will  not  stay  in  Paris,"  she  said  to  her 
mother.  "  I  want  to  be  free  from  it,  and  Jenny  has 
promised  to  go  with  us." 

They  were  to  go  into  Normandy,  and  the  day  be 
fore  their  departure  Ralph  Edmondstone  came  to 
bid  them  good-by. 

Of  the  three  he  was  by  far  the  most  haggard 
figure,  and  when  Bertha  came  down  to  meet  him 
in  the  empty  drawing-room,  he  became  a  wretched 
figure  with  a  broken,  hopeless  air.  For  a  few  sec 
onds  Bertha  did  not  speak,  but  stood  a  pace  or 
two  away  looking  at  him.  It  seemed,  in  truth,  as 
she  waited  there  in  her  dark,  nun-like  dress,  that 
nearly  all  her  beauty  had  left  her.  There  remained 


"L£  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     65 

only  her  large  sad  eyes  and  pretty  hair,  and  the 
touching  look  of  extreme  youth.  In  her  hand  she 
held  the  crushed  letter. 

"  See  !  "  she  said  at  last,  holding  this  out  to  him. 
"  I  am  not  so  bad  —  so  bad  as  that." 

He  caught  it  from  her  hand  and  tore  it  into  frag 
ments.  He  was  stabbed  through  and  through  with 
shame  and  remorse.  After  all,  his  love  had  been 
strong  enough  here,  and  his  comprehension  keen 
enough  to  have  made  him  repent  in  the  dust  of  the 
earth,  in  his  first  calm  hour,  the  insult  he  had  put 
upon  her. 

"  Forgive  me  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  oh,  forgive  me  !  " 

The  few  steps  between  them  might  have  been  a 
myriad  of  miles. 

"  I  did  love  you  —  long  ago,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
you  never  thought  of  me.  You  did  not  understand 
me  then  —  nor  afterward.  All  this  winter  my  love 
has  been  dying  a  hard  death.  You  tried  to  keep  it 
alive,  but  —  you  did  not  understand.  You  only 
humiliated  and  tortured  me.  And  I  knew  that  if  I 
had  loved  you  more,  you  would  have  loved  me 
less.  See  !  "  holding  up  her  thin  hand,  "  I  have 
been  worn  out  in  the  struggle  between  myunhappi- 
less  and  remorse  and  you." 

"  You  do  not  know  what  love  is  !  "  he  burst  forth, 
stung  into  swift  resentment. 

A  quick  sob  broke  from  her. 

" Yes,  I  do,"  she  answered.  "I  —  I  have  seen 
it." 

5 


66      "LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  You  mean  M.  Villefort ! "  he  cried  in  desperate 
jealous  misery.  "  You  think  that  he  "  — 

She  pointed  to  the  scattered  fragments  of  the 
letter, 

"  He  had  that  in  his  pocket  when  he  fell,"  she 
said.  "  He  thought  that  I  had  read  it.  If  I  had 
been  your  wife,  and  you  had  thought  so,  would  you 
have  thought  that  I  was  worth  trying  to  save  —  as 
he  tried  to  save  me  ?  " 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  shamefacedly.  "Has 
he  seen  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  another  sob,  which 
might  have  been  an  echo  of  the  first.  "  And  that 
is  the  worst  of  all." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  he  looked  down 
at  the  floor,  and  even  trembled  a  little. 

"  I  have  done  you  more  wrong  than  I  thought," 
he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  a  thousand-fold  more." 

It  seemed  as  if  there  might  have  been  more  to 
say,  but  it  was  not  said. 

In  a  little  while  he  roused  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  I  am  not  a  villain,"  he  said.  "  I  can  do  one 
thing.  I  can  go  to  Villefort  —  if  you  care." 

She  did  not  speak.  So  he  moved  slowly  away 
until  he  reached  the  door.  With  his  hand  upon 
the  handle  he  turned  and  looked  back  at  her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  good-by  —  good-by  !  "  he  almost 
groaned. 

"Yes." 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     67 

He  could  not  help  it  —  few  men  could  have 
done  so.  His  expression  was  almost  fierce  as  he 
spoke  his  next  worcls. 

"  And  you  will  love  him  —  yes,  you  will  love 
him." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  with  bitter  pain.  "  I  am 
not  worthy." 

It  was  a  year  or  more  before  the  Villeforts  were 
seen  in  Paris  again,  and  Jenny  enjoyed  her  wander 
ings  with  them  wondrously.  In  fact,  she  was  the 
leading  member  of  the  party.  She  took  them 
where  she  chose,  —  to  queer  places,  to  ugly  places, 
to  impossible  places,  but  never  from  first  to  last 
to  any  place  where  there  were  not,  or  at  least  had 
not  been,  Americans  as  absurdly  erratic  as  them 
selves. 

The  winter  before  their  return  they  were  at 
Genoa,  among  other  places ;  and  it  was  at  Genoa 
that  one  morning,  on  opening  a  drawer,  Bertha 
came  upon  an  oblong  box,  the  sight  of  which  made 
her  start  backward  and  put  her  hand  to  her  beating 
side.  M.  Villefort  approached  her  hurriedly.  An 
instant  later,  however,  he  started  also  and  shut 
the  drawer. 

"Come  away,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  gently. 
"  Do  not  remain  here." 

But  he  was  pale,  too,  and  his  hand  was  un 
steady.  He  led  her  to  the  window  and  made  her 
sit  down. 


68     "LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME." 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said.  "  I  should  not  have  left 
them  there." 

"  You  did  not  send  them  to  your  friend  ? "  she 
faltered. 

"  No." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  or  so,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  at  the  blue  sea  which  melted  into  the 
blue  sky,  at  the  blue  sky  which  bent  itself  into 
the  blue  sea,  at  the  white  sails  flecking  the  deep 
azure,  at  the  waves  hurrying  in  to  break  upon  the 
sand. 

"That"  —  he  said  at  length,  tremulously,  and 
with  pale  lips  —  "  that  was  false." 

"Was  false!"  she  echoed. 

"Yes,"  hoarsely,  "it  was  false.  There  was  no 
such  friend.  It  was  a  lie  —  they  were  meant  only 
for  myself." 

She  uttered  a  low  cry  of  anguish  and  dread. 

"Ah  man  Dieu  /"  he  said.  "You  could  not 
know.  I  understood  all,  and  had  been  silent.  I 
was  nothing  —  a  jest  —  lle  monsieur  de  la  petite 
dame,'  as  they  said,  —  only  that.  I  swore  that  I 
would  save  you.  When  I  bade  you  adieu  that 
night,  I  thought  it  was  my  last  farewell.  There 
was  no  accident.  Yes  —  there  was  one.  I  did 
not  die,  as  I  had  intended.  My  hand  was  not 
steady  enough.  And  since  then  "  — 

She  rose  up,  crying  out  to  him  as  she  had  done 
on  that  terrible  night,  — 

"Arthur!  Arthur!" 


"  LE  MONSIEUR  DE  LA  PETITE  DAME."     69 

He  came  closer  to  her. 

"  Is  it  true,"  he  said,  — "  is  it  true  that  my 
prayers  have  not  been  in  vain  ?  Is  it  true  that  at 
last  —  at  last,  you  have  learned  —  have  learned  "  — 

She  stretched  forth  her  arms  to  him. 

"  It  is  true  !  "  she  cried.  "  Yes,  it  is  true  !  —  it 
is  true ! " 


SMETHURSTSES. 


QMETHURSTSES,  mum  —  yes,  mum,  on  ac- 
Vv3  counts  of  me  bein'  Smethurst  an'  the  wax 
works  mine.  Fifteen  year  I've  been  in  the  busi 
ness,  an'  if  I  live  fifteen  year  more  I  shall  have 
been  in  it  thirty ;  for  wax-works  is  the  kind  of  a 
business  as  a  man  gets  used  to  and  friendly  with, 
after  a  manner.  Lor'  bless  you  !  there's  no  tellin' 
how  much  company  them  there  wax-works  is.  I've 
picked  a  companion  or  so  out  of  the  collection. 
Why,  there's  Lady  Jane  Grey,  as  is  readin'  her 
Greek  Testyment ;  when  her  works  is  in  order  an' 
she's  set  a-goin',  liftin'  her  eyes  gentle-like  from  her 
book,  I  could  fancy  as  she  knew  every  trouble  I'd 
had  an'  was  glad  as  they  was  over.  And  there's  the 
Royal  Fam'ly  on  the  dais  all  a  settin'  together  as 
free  an'  home-like  an'  smilin'  as  if  they  wasn't 
nothin'  more  than  flesh  an'  blood  like  you  an'  me 
an'  not  a  crown  among  'em.  Why,  they've  actually 
been  a  comfort  to  me.  I've  set  an'  took  my  tea 
on  my  knee  on  the  step  there  many  a  time,  because 
it  seemed  cheerfuller  than  in  my  own  little  place  at 


SME  THURS  TSES.  J  \ 

the  back.  If  I  was  a  talkin'  man  I  might  object  to 
the  stillness  an'  a  general  fixedness  in  the  gaze,  as 
perhaps  is  a  objection  as  wax-works  is  open  to  as  a 
rule,  though  I  can't  say  as  it  ever  impressed  me  as 
a  very  affable  gentleman  once  said  it  impressed 
him. 

"  Smethurst,"  says  he,  "  you  must  have  a  blamed 
clear  conscience  (though,  bein'  rather  free-spoken, 
'  blamed '  was  not  the  precise  word  employed)  — 
you  must  have  a  blamed  clear  conscience  or  I'm 
blamed  if  you  could  stand  so  many  blamed  pair  of 
staring  eyes  gimleting  you  year  in  an'  year  out. 
An'  as  to  them  with  works,"  says  he,  "they're 
worse  than  the  others,  for  even  if  they  turn  away  a 
minute  they  always  turn  back  again,  as  if  they 
wouldn't  trust  you  out  of  their  sight." 

But  somehow,  I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way, 
an'  as  to  not  liking  the  quiet,  why  shouldn't  I  ? 
In  a  general  way  I  haven't  got  no  more  to  say  than 
they  have,  and  so  it  suits  me  well  enough.  I  will 
own  though,  as  I've  never  felt  particular  comfort 
able  in  the  Chamber  of  Horrors,  an'  never  wouldn't 
have  had  one,  but  even  in  a  small  collection  like 
mine  the  public  demands  it,  an'  won't  hear  of 
bein'  satisfied  without  one;  "for,"  says  they, 
"  what's  the  use  of  a  wax-works  without  Manning 
an'  them,  an'  the  prisoners  in  the  dock,  an'  the 
knife  as  the  young  woman  was  cut  up  in  pieces 
with  ? "  So  I  was  obliged  to  have  the  little  back 
room  hung  with  black,  like  Madame  Tussaud's  in 


7  2  SME  THURSTSES. 

a  small  way,  and  fitted  up  with  murders,  and  a 
model  of  the  guillotine,  and  two  or  three  heads  of 
parties  as  come  to  a  untimely  end  in  the  French 
Revolution.  But  it  aint  my  taste  for  all  that,  and 
there's  always  a  heaviness  in  the  air  as  makes  me 
low-like  an'  I'm  glad  to  turn  the  key  on  'em  ai 
night  an'  leave  'em  to  have  a  rest  from  the  stares 
an'  talk  an'  stirrin'  up  of  their  sin,  an'  the  shame 
an'  agony  of  their  dreadful  deaths.  Good  Lord ! 
it  turns  me  sick  to  think  of  them  havin'  been  real 
livin'  creatures,  with  mothers  an'  wives  an'  friends, 
some  of  'em  perhaps  livin'  to-day,  all  crushed  an' 
blasted  with  the  horror  they've  went  through. 

But  that  aint  the  story  as  I've  half-way  promised 
to  tell  you.  If  you  really  want  to  hear  it,  mum,  I 
don't  mind  tellin'  it,  though  I  don't  know  as  it  will 
be  interestin'  —  I've  often  wondered  if  it  would  be 
as  interestin'  to  outsiders  as  it  was  to  me,  bein'  as 
it's  the  story  of  a  friend  of  mine  as  was  something 
like  me  an'  likewise  had  a  wax-works.  Would  you 
mind  settin'  there,  mum,  next  to  the  Japanese 
party  ?  His  lady's  works  was  broke,  an'  her  bein' 
absent  at  the  cleaner's  leaves  the  chair  vacant 
most  convenient. 

His  name  it  was  Joe  —  this  acquaintance  of 
mine,  an',  as  I  said,  he  was  somethin'  of  my  build 
an'  temper.  He  was  a  quiet  chap  an'  a  lonely 
chap,  an'  London  was  his  native  place  —  leastways, 
I  don't  see  as  it  could  have  been  no  nativer  than  it 


SMETHURSTSES.  73 

was,  bein'  as  he  was  laid  at  the  door  of  a  London 
foundlin'  when  he  wasn't  no  more  than  a  few  days 
old,  and  London  fed  him  and  clothed  him  until  he 
was  big  enough  to  take  care  of  hisself.  He  hadn't 
a  easy  life  of  it  as  you  may  be  sure.  He  wasn't 
handsome  nor  yet  sharp,  he  couldn't  answer  back 
nor  yet  give  cheek ;  he  could  only  take  it,  which 
he  had  to  do  frequent. 

There  was  plenty  of  folks  as  give  him  the  char 
acter  of  a  nat'ral  born  fool,  an'  they  may  have  been 
right.  They  said  as  no  chap  as  had  his  right  senses 
could  be  as  good-natured  an'  ready  to  forgive  a  in 
jury,  an'  above  all  as  slow  to  suspect  as  one  was 
bein'  done  him.  I  think  they  thought  his  bein' 
slow  to  suspect  harm  a-goin'  on  was  the  best  proof 
of  his  bein'  a  fool,  —  an'  he  wasn't  ready  enough 
with  his  tongue  to  argy  the  point.  He  wasn't 
never  good  at  a  argyment  —  Joe  wasn't. 

Well,  he  growed  up,  an'  he  did  first  one  thing 
an'  then  another,  until  at  last  he  was  picked  up  by 
a  travelin'  wax-works  showman  as  had  just  such  a 
collection  as  this  here  of  mine  —  havin'  in  it  just 
such  a  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  likewise  a  sim'lar 
Royal  Fam'ly. 

"  Well,"  says  the  wax-works  man,  when  Joe  first 
goes  to  ask  for  work,  "  what  can  you  do  ? " 

"  Not  much,  perhaps,"  says  Joe  ;  "  leastways, 
I've  not  been  in  the  business  before ;  but  if  you'll 
give  me  a  job,  Mister,  I  can  do  what  I'm  told." 

The  showman  gives  him  a  look  from  head  to 
foot. 


74  SMETHURSTSES. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  at  all  events,  you're  not  one 
of  them  blarsted  sharp  uns  as  knows  everythin'  an' 
can't  dust  a  figger  without  knockin'  its  head  off. 
I've  had  enough  of  them  sort"  —  savage  like  — 
li  a-ruinin'  my  Richard  Cure  the  Lion,  an'  a-settin' 
Mary  Queen  o'  Scottses  insides  all  wrong  "  (which 
was  what  his  last  young  man  had  been  a-doin'). 

"No,"  answers  Joe,  slow  an'  serious,  "I  don't 
think  as  I'd  do  that." 

The  showman  gives  him  another  look,  an'  seems 
sort  of  satisfied. 

"  Go  inside  an'  get  your  dinner,"  he  says.  "  I'll 
try  you  just  because  you  haven't  got  so  much 
cheek." 

And  he  did  try  him,  an'  pretty  well  they  got  on 
together,  after  a  while.  Slowness  is  not  a  objec 
tion  in  a  wax-works  as  much  as  in  a  business  as  is 
less  delicater.  I've  thought  myself  as  p'r'aps  wax 
works  has  their  feelin's,  an'  knows  who  means 
respec'ful  by  'em  an'  who  doesn't,  an'  this  Joe 
meant  respec'ful,  an'  never  took  no  liberties  as  he 
could  help.  He  dusted  'em  reg'lar,  an'  wound  'em 
up  an'  set  'em  goin'  accordin'  to  rules ;  but  he 
never  tried  no  larks  on  'em,  an'  that  was  why  he 
gets  along  so  well  with  his  master. 

"  That  other  chap  was  too  fond  of  his  larks,"  says 
the  showman,  kind  of  gloomy  whenever  he  men 
tions  the  first  young  man.  He  never  forgive  him 
to  the  day  of  his  death  for  openin'  the  collection 
one  day  with  Charles  the  Secondses  helmet  on 


SME  THURS  TSES.  /  5 

Mrs.  Hannah  Mooreses  head,  an'  Daniel  in  the 
Lions'  Den  in  William  Pennses  spectacles,  with 
some  other  party's  umbrella  under  his  arm. 

But  Joe  weren't  of  a  witty  turn,  an'  not  given  to 
jokes,  which  is  not  suited  to  wax-works  as  a  rule, 
collections  bein'  mostly  serious.  An',  as  I  say, 
him  an'  his  master  got  along  so  well  that  one  day, 
after  they  had  been  together  a  year  or  so,  the  show 
man,  he  says  to  him,  "Joe,"  says  he,  "I'm  blessed 
if  I'd  mind  takin'  you  in  as  a  partner."  An'  that 
very  mornin'  he  has  the  reg'lar  papers  made  out, 
an'  the  thing  was  done  without  no  more  said  about 
it.  An'  partners  they  was  till  he  died,  which 
happened  very  unexpected  —  him  a  sayin' sudden 
one  night  when  they  was  a-shuttin'  up  together, 
"Joe,  old  chap,  I'm  blessed  if  my  works  aint  a 
runnin'  down,"  an'  gives  one  look  round  at  the 
figgers,  an'  then  drops  —  which  the  medical  man 
said  as  it  was  dropsy  of  the  heart.  When  his 
things  was  looked  over,  it  was  found  he'd  left 
everythin'  to  Joe  except  one  partic'lar  ugly  figger, 
as  turned  his  eyes  with  a  squint  an'  couldn't  be 
done  nothin'  with,  an'  him  he'd  left  to  a  old  maid 
relation  as  had  a  spite  agin  him;  "for,"  says  the 
will,  "  she'd  ought  to  have  him,  for  he's  the  only 
chap  I  ever  see  yet  as  could  match  her  —  let  alone 
stand  her,  an'  it's  time  she  was  takin'  a  partner,  if 
she's  goin' to."  They  did  say  as  it  was  nearly  the 
party's  death,  for,  though  they'd  quarreled  reg'lar 
for  twenty-five  years  an'  hated  each  other  deadly, 


76  SMETHURSTSES. 

she'd  always  believed  as  she'd  come  into  his 
belongin's  if  she  outlived  him,  thinkin'  as  he  would 
make  no  will. 

Well,  havin'  had  company  for  so  long,  it  was 
nat'ral  as  Joe  should  feel  lonely-like  after  this,  an' 
now  an'  then  get  a  trifle  down-hearted.  He  didn't 
find  travelin'  all  alone  as  pleasant  as  it  had  been, 
so  when  he  was  makin'  anythin'  at  all  in  a  place, 
he'd  stay  in  it  as  long  as  he  could,  an'  kind  of  try 
to  persuade  hisself  as  it  was  kind  of  home  to  him, 
an'  he  had  things  to  hold  him  to  it.  He  had  a 
good  many  feelin's  in  secret  as  might  have  been 
laughed  at  if  people  had  knowed  'em.  He  knowed 
well  enough  as  he  wasn't  the  kind  of  chap  to  have 
a  home  of  his  own  —  men  as  has  homes  has  wives, 
an'  who'd  have  wanted  to  marry  him,  bless  you  — 
he  wasn't  the  build  as  young  women  take  to.  He 
weren't  nothin'  to  look  at,  an'  he  couldn't  chaff, 
nor  yet  lark,  nor  yet  be  ready  with  his  tongue.  In 
general,  young  women  was  apt  to  make  game  of 
him  when  their  sweethearts  brought  'em  into  the 
collection,  an'  there  was  times  when  a  pretty,  light- 
hearted  one  would  put  him  out  so  as  he  scarcely 
knowed  the  Royal  Fam'ly  by  name,  an'  mixed  up 
the  Empress  of  the  French  an'  Lucreecher  Borgiar 
in  the  description. 

So  he  lived  on,  lonesome  enough,  for  two  or 
three  year,  an'  then  somethin'  happened.  He  went 
up  to  London  to  stay  while  the  races  was  goin'  on, 
an'  one  day,  when  the  collection  was  pretty  full, 


SME  THURS  TSES.  J  / 

there  comes  in  a  swell  party  with  a  girl  on  his 
arm.  The  swell,  as  was  a  tall,  fine-lookin'  chap, 
was  in  high  sperits,  an'  had  just  come  in  for  the 
lark  of  the  thing,  Joe  sees  plain,  for  he  were  makin' 
his  jokes  free  an'  easy  about  everything  an'  laughin' 
fit  to  kill  hisself  every  now  an'  then.  But  the  girl 
were  different;  she  were  a  little  rosy  thing,  with 
round,  shinin'  eyes,  an'  a  soft,  little  timid  way  with 
her.  She  laughed  too,  but  only  shy  an'  low,  an' 
more  because  she  was  happy  an'  because  the  swell 
laughed.  She  wasn't  the  kind  of  young  woman  as 
the  swell  ought  to  have  been  a-goin'  with.  She 
was  dressed  in  her  best,  an'  was  as  pretty  as  a  pic- 
tur'  •  but  her  clothes  was  all  cheap,  an'  Joe  could 
see  as  she  belonged  to  the  workin'  class,  an'  was 
out  for  a  holiday.  She  held  close  to  the  gentle 
man's  arm,  an'  seemed  half  frightened,  an'  yet  so 
glad  an'  excited  that  she  would  have  minded  you 
of  a  six-year-old  child.  It  were  the  first  time 
she'd  ever  been  into  a  wax-works,  an'  things  looked 
wonderful  to  her.  When  they  come  to  Lady  Jane 
Grey  she  was  quite  took  with  her,  an'  begun  to  ask 
questions  in  the  innocentest  way. 

"  She's  one  of  the  nobility,  sir,  isn't  she  ? "  she 
says  to  her  companion.  "  Did  you  ever  see  her  ? 
Isn't  she  beautiful,  sir  ?  " 

He  laughs  delighted,  an'  squeezes  her  hand  a  bit 
with  his  arm. 

"  No,  Polly,"  he  says.  "  I  never  saw  her  until 
to-day.  She  didn't  keep  her  head  on  her  shoulders 


7  8  SME  THURS  TSES. 

long  enough.  It  was  cut  off  some  time  ago,  my 
dear."  An'  then  he  whispers :  "  An'  it  wasn't 
nearly  as  pretty  a  head  as  yours,  Polly,  either." 

The  little  girl  blushes  like  a  rose,  an'  tries  to 
laugh  too ;  but  Joe  knew  as  she'd  took  the  words 
more  to  her  innocent  heart  than  was  good  for  her. 

"  Lor'  me  !  "  she  says.  "  What  a  shame  it  was 
to  cut  her  head  off,  —  an'  her  so  sweet  an'  quiet !  " 

"Yes,  Polly,"  says  the  young  gentleman,  a- 
laughin'  more.  "  Very  quiet.  Wax-works  are,  as 
a  rule.  A  nice  time  a  proprietor  would  have,  if 
they  were  not,  with  such  a  lot  of  queer  customers, 
—  Bloody  Mary,  for  instance,  and  Henry  the 
Eighth,  and  Nana  Sahib,  and  John  Knox,  and 
Lucretia  Borgia,  —  though  you  don't  know  much 
of  their  amiable  characteristics,  my  dear." 

They  went  on  in  that  way  through  the  whole 
room,  —  him  a-jokin' an'  makin'  light,  an' her  en- 
joyin'  herself  an'  admirin'  everythin'  she  set  eyes 
on,  an'  Joe,  a-watchin'  her.  He  couldn't  help  it. 
Somethin'  queer  seemed  to  have  took  hold  of  him 
the  minute  he  first  sees  her.  He  kep'  a-wishin'  as 
the  collection  was  ten  times  as  big,  so  as  it  would 
take  longer  for  her  to  go  through.  He  couldn't 
bear  the  thought  of  seem'  the  last  of  her,  an'  when 
they  comes  to  the  Russian  party,  as  stands  near 
the  door,  dressed  for  the  winter  season,  —  his  nose 
bein'  protected  with  fur,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
country,  —  his  heart  were  in  his  mouth,  an' when 
she  passed  out  into  the  crowd,  he  seemed  to 


SME  THURS  TSES.  79 

swallow  it  with  a  gulp,  as  took  it  into  the  heels  of 
his  boots. 

"  Lor' !  V  he  says,  all  of  a  tremble  in  his  insides, 
"  I  shan't  never  see  her  again,  —  never  !  " 

He  hadn't  no  spirit  in  him  all  that  day,  nor  the 
next  either.  It  was  as  if  somethin'  altogether  out 
of  common  had  happened,  an'  he  couldn't  never 
be  the  same  man  again.  He  were  miserable,  an' 
down  an'  nervous,  an'  there  wasn't  a  figger  in  the 
collection  as  didn't  seem  to  know  it.  He  took  to 
standin'  at  the  door  whenever  'he  could,  a-lookin' 
at  the  people  a-passin'  by.  An'  yet  he  scarcely 
knowed  what  for.  If  he'd  seen  the  face  he  wanted 
to,  he  wouldn't  'a'  dared  to  say  a  word,  nor  yet  to 
move  a  step ;  an'  still  he  was  a-hungerin'  day  an' 
night  for  a  glimpse  of  what  couldn't  be  no  good  to 
him. 

Well,  if  you'll  believe  me,  mum,  instead  of  get- 
tin'  easier  as  time  went  on,  he  got  uneasier.  He 
was  as  lonesome  again  as  he  had  been,  an'  he  took 
his  tea  a-settin'  with  the  Royal  Fam'ly  reg'lar,  — 
he  couldn't  have  swallowed  it  by  hisself.  After 
shuttin'  up,  he'd  go  out  wanderin'  in  the  streets 
melancholy  and  wistful  like,  an'  one  night  he  stops 
short  all  at  once,  a-feelin'  hisself  turn  pale  in  con 
sequence  of  it  comin'  to  him  sudden  what  ailed 
him. 

"  I've  fell  in  love,"  says  he,  fearful  an'  respec'ful, 
—  "that's  it,  —  an' there's  no  help  for  me.  I'm 
not  the  man  as  should  have  done  it,  for  I  can't  look 
for  nothin'  to  come  out  of  it." 


80  SMETHURSTSES. 

He  give  hisself  up  to  it,  because  he  didn't  see 
no  way  out  of  it.  Nobody  wasn't  troubled  but  his 
self,  an'  so  it  didn't  matter.  He  got  pale  an'  thin, 
an'  didn't  sleep  well  o'  nights,  but  there  wasn't 
no  one  to  bother  themselves  about  him,  —  there 
weren't  even  a  soul  as  he  could  'a'  left  the  collec 
tion  to,  if  he'd  'a'  died. 

It  went  pretty  hard  with  him  to  leave  London, 
an'  when  he  did  leave  it,  he  couldn't  stay  away ; 
an'  I'm  blessed  if  he  didn't  come  back  in  less  than 
six  months  ;  for,  says  he  to  hisself  :  — 

"  Here's  a  place  as  is  somethin'  more  than  the 
others,  at  least,  though  it  is  in  a  sorrowful  way,  an' 
I'd  rather  as  the  collection  would  earn  me  a  bare 
livin'  in  a  side  street  in  London,  than  make  money 
away  from  it.  I  might  see  her  again  ;  an',  Lor' 
bless  me  !  what  do  I  want  of  money  a-layin' 
back  ?  " 

Well,  the  very  first  night  after  he  came  back,  he 
did  see  her  again.  He'd  set  out  the  collection  in 
the  room  he'd  hired,  an'  then  he'd  gone  out  in  the 
old  wanderin'  way,  an'  he  hadn't  hardly  stepped 
into  the  street  before  he  comes  on  a  crowd  gath 
ered  around  somethin'  near  a  lamp-post ;  so  he 
stops  nat'ral,  an'  makes  inquiries. 

"  Anybody  hurt  ?  "  says  he. 

"  No,  not  exactly,"  answers  the  man  he'd  spoke 
to.  "  It's  a  young  woman  as  has  fainted,  I  think." 

He  makes  his  way  a  bit  nearer,  an'  as  soon  as 
he  claps  his  eyes  on  the  deathly  face  under  the 


SME  THURS  TSES.  8 1 

lamp-light,  he  sees  as  it's  the  face  he's  been  lookin' 
for  an'  thinkin'  about  so  long. 

"  It's  her !  "  he  says,  so  shook  as  he  didn't  know 
what  he  was  doin'.  "  It's  Polly  ! " 

"  Polly ! "  says  the  woman  as  was  holdin'  her 
head.  "  Do  you  know  her,  young  man?  If  you 
do,  you'd  better  speak  to  her,  for  she's  just  comin' 
to,  poor  little  thing !  " 

He  knowed  he  couldn't  explain,  an'  he  thinks, 
besides,  as  the  feelin'  he  had  for  her  might  make 
his  face  look  friendlier  than  a  stranger's,  so  he 
kneels  down  as  the  woman  tells  him,  just  as  she 
opens  her  eyes. 

The  crowd  seemed  to  frighten  her,  an'  she  began 
to  tremble  an'  cry  ;  an'  so  Joe  speaks  to  her,  low, 
an'  quiet,  an'  respec'ful :  — 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  miss,"  he  says,  —  "don't. 
You'll  be  well  directly." 

She  catches  hold  of  his  hand  like  a  frightened 
baby. 

"  Send  them  away  !  "  she  says.  "  Please,  don't 
let  them  stare  at  me.  I  can't  bear  it !  " 

"Miss,"  says  Joe,  "would  you  mincl  bein' took 
into  a  collection,  if  this  good  lady  would  go  with 
you  ? " 

"  A  collection  !  "  she  says,  all  bewildered.  "  I 
haven't  got  any  money.  What  is  it  for  ?  Oh, 
please  make  them  go  away !  " 

"  Not  a  hat  took  'round,  miss,"  says  Joe.  "Oh 
dear,  no  !  I  was  alludin'  to  a  wax- works  which  is 
6 


8  2  SME  THURSTSES. 

quite  convenient,  an'  belongs  to  me,  an'  a  fire  an' 
a  cup  of  tea  ready  immediate,  an'  a  good  lady  to 
stay  with  you  until  you  feel  better,  —  an'  all  quite 
private."  • 

"  Take  me  anywhere,  please,"  she  says.  "  Thank 
you,  sir.  Oh,  take  me  away." 

So  between  them,  Joe  an'  the  good  woman  helps 
her  up  an'  leads  her  to  the  cloor  as  was  but  a  few 
steps  off,  an'  Joe  takes  them  in  an'  on  to  the  back 
room,  where  the  fire  was  a  burnin'  an'  the  kettle 
singin',  an'  there  he  has  them  both  to  sit  down. 

The  woman  makes  the  girl  lie  down  on  the  sofa 
by  the  fire,  an'  she  bein'  weak  an'  wanderin'  yet 
did  as  she  was  told  without  askin'  a  question. 

"  A  cup  of  tea'll  set  her  up,"  says  the  woman, 
"  an'  then  she  can  tell  us  where  she  lives  an'  we 
can  take  her  home." 

Joe  went  about  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  His  legs 
was  unsteady  under  him,  an'  he  was  obliged  to  ask 
the  woman  to  pour  the  water  on  the  tea,  an'  while 
she  was  doin'  it  he  takes  a  candle  and  slips  into 
the  collection  secret,  to  make  sure  the  Royal 
Fam'ly  was  there  an'  he  wasn't  out  of  his  head. 

The  woman,  havin'  girls  of  her  own,  was  very 
motherly  an'  handy  an'  did  all  she  could,  but  she 
couldn't  stay  long,  and  after  she'd  give  Polly  her 
tea,  she  says  she  must  go. 

"  An'  I  dare  say  as  the  young  man  as  is  so  kind- 
hearted'll  come  along  with  me,  an'  we'll  see  you 
home  together,  my  dear." 


SME  THUKS  TSES.  8  3 

They  both  looks  at  Polly  then  a-waitin'  to  see 
what  she  would  say,  but  she  only  looked  frightened, 
an'  the  next  minute  hides  her  face  in  her  little 
hands  on  the  sofa-arm  an'  begins  to  sob. 

"  I  haven't  got  no  home,"  she  says,  "  nor  no 
where  to  go.  What  shall  I  do  —  what  shall  I 
do?" 

Then  the  woman  looks  very  serious  an'  a  bit 
hard-like  about  the  mouth  —  though  not  as  hard  as 
some  might  have  done. 

"  Where's  your  mother?"  she  says,  just  the  least 
short. 

"  I  haven't  none,"  says  Polly.  "  I  lost  her  a 
month  ago." 

"You  aint  in  mournin',"  says  the  woman. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  says  Polly,  "  I  couldn't  afford  it." 

"  An'  your  father  ?  " 

But  this  made  the  poor  little  thing  cry  harder 
than  ever.  She  wrung  her  hands  an'  sobbed  piti 
ful. 

"  Oh,  father !  "  she  says.  "  Good,  kind,  easy 
father,  if  you  was  alive  I  wouldn't  be  like  this. 
You  always  loved  me  —  always.  You  never  was 
hard,  father." 

"  What  have  you  been  livin'  on  ? "  says  the 
woman,  lookin'  as  if  she  was  a-relentin'. 

"  I  was  in  a  shop  "  — 

But  Joe  couldn't  stand  no  more. 

"Ma'am,"  he  says  in  a  undertone,  "if  a  pound 
or  so,  which  not  bein'  a  fam'ly  man  an'  a  good 


84  SMETHURSTSES. 

business  at  times,  I  have  it  to  spare,  would  make 
matters  straight,  here  it  is."  An'  he  pulls  a  handful 
of  silver  out  of  his  pocket  and  holds  it  out  quite 
eager  an'  yet  fearful  of  givin'  offense. 

Well,  then  the  woman  looks  sharp  at  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asks.  "  Do  you 
want  me  to  take  her  home  with  me  ?  " 

"  Ma'am,"  says  Joe,  "yes,  if  a  pound  or  so  "  — 

But  she  stops  him  by  turning  to  the  girl. 

"  Are  you  a  respectable  young  woman  ? "  she 
asks. 

The  pretty  face  was  hid  on  the  sofa-arm,  an'  the 
little  figure  looked  so  droopin'  that  Joe  could  stand 
that  less  than  he  could  stand  the  other. 

"Ma'am,"  says  he  hurried,  "if  five  pound  "  — 

It  seemed  like  the  woman's  heart  was  touched, 
though  she  answered  him  rough. 

"Young  man,"  she  says,  "you're  a  fool,  but  if 
you  don't  want  me  to  speak  out  before  her,  take 
me  into  the  next  room  an'  we'll  talk  it  over." 

So  Joe  took  her  into  the  collection,  an'  the  end 
of  it  was  that  they  made  an  agreement,  an'  sharp 
as  she  seemed,  the  woman  showed  as  she  was  fair 
and  straight  an'  would  take  no  advantage.  She 
let  Joe  persuade  her  at  last  to  take  the  girl  with 
her  an'  ask  no  questions,  an'  he  was  to  pay  her  a 
trifle  to  make  it  straight  an'  no  burden  to  her. 

"Though,"  says  she,  "if  she  had  a  different  face 
an'  one  as  wasn't  so  innocent  an'  young,  I  wouldn't 
take  her  at  no  price,  for  I've  girls  of  my  own  as 


SMETHURSTSES.  85 

I  tell  you,  an'  p'r'aps  that's  what  makes  me  easier 
on  her." 

When  they  was  gone  away,  Joe  goes  into  the 
room  they'd  left  an'  sets  hisself  down  by  the  fire 
an'  stares  at  the  sofa. 

"  She  set  there,"  he  says,  "  an'  she  laid  her  head 
on  the  arm,  and  likewise  drunk  out  of  that  there 
cup.  I've  seen  her  again  as  sure  as  I'm  a  man." 

An'  not  a  wink  of  sleep  does  he  get  that  night, 
but  sits,  an'  stares,  an'  thinks  until  the  fire  dies  out 
into  ashes,  an'  it's  gray  early  mornin'. 

Through  a  delicateness  of  feelin'  he  does  not  go 
anywheres  near  her  for  a  day  or  so,  an'  then  the 
woman — whose  name  is  Mrs.  Bonny — calls  in  to 
see  him. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "it  seems  all  right  so  far. 
She's  a  nice  little  thing,  an'  she's  got  work  in  a 
millinery  down  town,  an'  I've  kept  my  word  an' 
asked  no  questions,  an'  will  you  come  an'  have  a 
cup  of  tea  with  us  this  evening  ?  " 

Of  course  he  went,  glad  enough,  though  awk 
ward,  an'  he  saw  her  again,  an'  she  was  prettier  an' 
innocenter  lookin'  than  ever,  though  pale  an'  timid. 
When  she  give  her  hand  at  partin'  an'  says, 
"  Thank  you  for  bein'  so  kind  to  me,"  he  couldn't 
say  a  single  word  in  answer,  he  were  so  bashful  an' 
upsot. 

He  was  always  bashful  enough,  even  after  they 
knowed  each  other  better  an'  was  good  friends, 
which  they  came  to  be.  She  seemed  to  take  a 


86  SME  THURS  TSES. 

childish  likin'  to  him,  an'  always  to  be  a  remem- 
berin'  as  she'd  somethin'  to  be  grateful  for. 

"  What  made  you  so  kind  to  me  that  night, 
Joe  ? "  she'd  say.  "  You  hadn't  never  seen  me 
before,  you  know.  Oh,  how  good  you  was,  Joe  !  " 
An'  he  hadn't  never  the  courage  to  tell  her  as  he 
had. 

Through  one  thing  an'  another,  it  was  quite  a 
while  before  she  chanced  to  see  the  collection,  but, 
at  last,  one  afternoon,  they  all  comes  down  —  Mrs. 
Bonny,  the  girls,  and  Polly. 

Polly  was  a-goin'  'round  with  Joe,  an'  he  couldn't 
help  wonderin'  anxious  if  she  would  remember  as 
she  had  seen  the  place  an'  him  before.  An'  she 
did.  Before  she  had  been  in  the  room  three  min 
utes,  she  begins  to  look  round  strange  an'  puzzled, 
an'  when  she  comes  to  Lady  Jane  Grey,  she 
catches  Joe's  arm  an'  gives  a  tremblin'  start. 

"  I've  been  here  before,"  she  says.  "  I  was  here 
last  races  —  I  —  oh,  Joe,"  —  an'  she  breaks  off  with 
a  sob. 

He  sets  her  in  a  chair  and  stands  before  her,  so 
as  the  Bonnys  can't  see. 

"  Don't  cry,  Polly,"  he  says,  but  he  says  it  with 
a  sinkin'  feelin',  because  he  sees  as  she  doesn't  re 
member  him  at  all,  an'  that  she  hasn't  forgot  her 
handsome  sweetheart. 

She  doesn't  cry  much  more  for  fear  of  the 
Bonnys,  but  she  doesn't  laugh  nor  talk  no  more  all 
the  rest  of  the  day,  an'  her  little  downcast  face 


SME  THURS  TSES.  8  / 

was  enough  to  make  a  man's  heart  ache.  I  dare 
say  you'll  think  as  Joe  was  a  fool  to  hang  on  so  in 
the  face  of  all  this,  but  it  was  his  way  to  hang  on 
to  a  thing  quiet  an'  steady,  and  you  remember  what 
I've  said  about  his  simpleness.  So  he  does  hang 
on  without  a  bit  of  hope  until  through  Polly  her 
self  he  speaks  almost  without  knowing  it,  an'  it 
happens  in  the  collection  just  three  months  from 
the  day  as  she  recognized  Lady  Jane  Grey. 

"  What  made  you  so  good  to  me  that  night, 
Joe  ?  "  she  says  again  to  him,  mournful  an'  gentle. 
"  I  never  shall  forget  it.  No  one  else  would  have 
been  so  good." 

"  Polly,'"'  he  says,  a-takin'  out  his  bandanna  an' 
wipin'  his  forehead,  for,  though  a  cool  day,  he  had 
broke  out  in  a  free  perspiration,  — f  *  Polly,  it  was  be 
cause  I  loved  you."  An'  he  went  straight  through 
an'  told  her  the  whole  story. 

"  But,"  says  he  at  the  end,  "  don't  let  that  come 
between  you  an'  me,  Polly,  for  why  should  it? 
You  have  nothing  to  give  me,  Polly,  an',  conse 
quently,  I  don't  ask  nothin'." 

"  No,"  says  she,  in  a  half  whisper,  "  I  haven't 
nothin'  to  give  no  one." 

An'  yet,  it  wasn't  three  weeks  before but, 

I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened. 

He'd  been  invited  to  the  Bonnys'  to  tea,  an 
when  he  went  there,  he  found  Polly  ailin'.  She 
was  white  an'  nervous,  an'  her  eyes  looked  big  an' 
woful. 


88  SMETHURSTSES. 

"  She  had  a  fright  last  night,"  Mrs.  Bonny  told 
him.  "  Some  scamp  of  a  fellow  followed  her  all 
the  way  home  an'  it's  upsot  her." 

She  hardly  spoke  all  the  evenin',  but  lay  back  in 
the  big  rockin'-chair  a-lookin'  at  Joe  every  now  an' 
then  as  if  she  was  askin'  him  to  help  her,  an'  when 
he'd  bid  'em  all  good-night  an'  was  half-way  down 
the  street,  he  hears  the  door  open  again,  an'  who 
should  come  runnin'  after  him  but  her,  all  out  of 
breath,  an'  catches  him  by  the  arm,  cryin' :  — 

"  Joe,"  she  says,  "  do  you  —  do  you  love  me  yet, 
Joe  ? " 

"  Polly,"  he  says,  "  what  is  it,  my  dear  ? "  an' 
hearin'  her  ask  him  such  a  question,  turned  him  al 
most  sick  with  joy  an'  pain  together. 

"Because/'  she  sobs  out, — '"because,  if  you 
love  me  yet,  —  take  me,  Joe,  an'  keep  me  safe." 

An'  before  he  knows  how  it  happens,  he  has  her 
in  his  arms,  with  her  face  against  his  coat. 

After  they  was  both  a  bit  quiet,  he  takes  her 
back  to  Mrs.  Bonny,  an'  says  he  :  — 

"  Mrs.  Bonny,  Polly  an'  me  is  goin'  to  be  mar 
ried." 

An'  Mrs.  Bonny  says  :  — 

"  Well,  now,  Polly,  that's  sensible ;  an'  though  I 
say  it  as  shouldn't,  I  must  own  as  I  wouldn't  care 
if  it  was  'Meliar." 

An'  she  kisses  Polly,  an'  the  girls  kisses  her,  an' 
they  all  shakes  hands,  an'  it's  a  settled  thing. 

They  was  married  almost  immediate,  an'  Joe  was 


SME  THURS  TSES.  89 

as  happy  as  a  man  could  be  under  the  circum 
stances  ;  for,  mind  you,  he  wasn't  a-deceivin'  his- 
self,  an'  knowed  well  enough  as  his  wasn't  the 
kind  of  a  marriage  where  there's  two  hearts  beatin' 
warm  together,  an'  both  is  full  of  joy  and  hope. 

"  But,"  says  he,  "  I  never  expected  this  much, 
an'  I'd  be  a  queer  sort  of  chap  not  to  be  grateful 
as  the  woman  I  love  could  turn  to  me  for  comfort 
when  she  needed  it ;  an'  if  love  can  bring  love, 
mine'll  be  like  to  do  it  some  day." 

So  he  waited  an'  hoped,  and  did  his  best,  an'  he 
sometimes  thought  as  Polly  drawed  a  bit  nearer  to 
him  as  time  went  on.  At  any  rate,  she  was  a 
good,  gentle  little  thing,  an'  always  seemed  tryin' 
to  please  him  in  a  wistful,  longin'  way,  as  if  she 
had  somethin'  to  make  up  for.  Once,  when  they 
was  settin'  together  at  night,  she  come  an'  knelt 
down  before  him,  and  hid  her  face  on  his  knee. 

"  Joe,"  she  says,  "  was  you  never  afraid  to 
marry  me, — when  —  when  you  remember  as  I'd 
never  told  you  nothin'  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answers.     "No,  Polly  —  never." 

"  But  I  might  have  been  a  wicked  girl,"  she 
whispers. 

"  No,"  says  he,  stout  and  tender.  "You  mightn't, 
Polly ;  "  an'  he  stoops  down  an'  kisses  her  pretty 
hair. 

She  burst  out  a-cryin',  and  creeps  closer,  so  as 
to  lay  her  cheek  on  his  hand. 

"I  might  have  been,"  she  says;  "but  I  wasn't, 
Joe,  —  I  wasn't,  because  God  an'  you  helped  me." 


QO  SME  THURS  TSES. 

An'  yet  he  knows  as  there's  somethin'  behind 
as  keeps  her  from  bein'  happy,  though  she  tries  so 
hard  an'  faithful.  He  always  sees  the  wistfulness 
in  her  eyes,  an'  hears  it  in  her  voice,  an'  time  an' 
time  again  he  knows  she's  lyin'  awake  at  night  a- 
grievin'  quiet.  One  mornin',  after  she's  been  lower 
than  common,  a  letter  comes  to  her,  an'  he  sees 
her  turn  white,  an'  after  she  holds  it  a  minute,  she 
walks  up  to  the  fire  an'  throws  it  in,  an'  before  he 
goes  back  to  the  collection,  she  comes  an'  catches 
him  'round  the  neck,  an'  says  :  — 

"  I  want  to  be  a  good  wife,  Joe,  —  I  want  to  be, 
an'  I  will,"  an'  cries  a  bit  again. 

That  very  afternoon  there  comes  a  swell  into  the 
wax-works,  an'  as  soon  as  Joe  sets  eyes  on  him,  he 
knows  it's  the  chap  he  first  see  Polly  with  in  the 
race-week,  and  there  he  is  a-saiuiterin'  'round  an' 
pretendin'  to  be  unconcerned,  an'  yet  keepin'  a 
sharp  look-out  around  him.  So  Joe  goes  up  to 
him,  and  speaks  to  him  quite  firm  and  low  :  — 

"  Was  you  lookin'  for  any  one,  sir  ?  "  he  asks. 

The  swell  looks  at  him  cool  enough. 

"  What's  that  you  say,  my  good  fellow  ?  "  he  an 
swers. 

"Well,"  says  Joe,  "nothing  in  a  general  way, 
perhaps  ;  only,  sir,  I  was  a-thinkin'  as  p'r'aps  you 
might  be  lookin'  for  some  one  as  was  unprotected 
an'  helpless,  an'  there  aint  no  such  a  party  here  ; 
an'  if  you'd  like  your  money  returned  at  the  door, 
—  me  bein'  the  proprietor  of  the  collection,  —  J 
shouldn't  have  no  objection." 


SME  THURS  TSES.  9 1 

"D your  collection  !  "  says  the  swell ;  but  he 

turns  'round  an'  goes  out,  halfa-laughin'. 

At  tea  that  evenin',  Polly  was  dreadful  restless 
an'  timid,  an'  seemed  to  be  a-listenin'  to  something 
an'  after  a  bit  Joe  finds  out  what  it  is,  —  it's  foot 
steps  a-passin'  back'ard  an'  for'ard  near  the  house, 
—  passin'  back'ard  an'  for'ard  reg'lar;  an'  they 
goes  on  that  way  for  a  good  hour,  an'  then  stops  ; 
an'  all  the  time  Polly  sits  close  to  Joe,  as  if  she 
was  afraid  to  leave  him,  her  eyes  shinin',  an'  her 
voice  shakin'  when  she  speaks.  Only  that  some- 
thin'  tells  him  as  she  doesn't  want  him  to  go,  he 
would  have  went  out ;  an'  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  was  almost  sorry  he  didn't,  for  she  started 
out  of  her  sleep,  callin'  out,  frightened  :  — 

"  Oh,  the  footsteps  !  —  the  footsteps  !  Make 
them  go  away  !  —  save  me  from  them,  Joe,  or  I 
must  go  !  " 

She  was  quite  ill  an'  weak  for  a  month,  an'  then, 
queer  enough,  a  change  come  over  her.  She  got 
her  color  back  gradual,  an'  went  out  oftener,  an' 
was  brighter  when  she  was  in  the  house.  She 
went  to  see  the  Bonnys  frequent,  a-helpin'  them 
get  ready  to  take  their  trip  to  the  seaside,  which 
they  did  reg'lar  ;  for  though  workin'-people,  they 
was  comfortable  off.  There  was  such  a  alteration 
in  her,  that  Joe  began  to  feel  hopeful,  an'  was  as 
cheerful  as  the  day  is  long ;  an'  well  he  might  be, 
for  she  actually  lays  her  pretty  head  on  his  breast 
once,  an'  whispers  :  — 


92  SMETHURSTSES. 

"  Joe,  I  believe  I'm  goin'  to  be  happy,  —  an'  it', 
all  through  you  bein'  so  lovin'  an'  patient.  You 
bore  with  me  a  long  time,  —  didn't  you,  Joe  ?  " 

They  had  been  married  near  twelve  months  then, 
an'  the  week  the  Bonnys  goes  away,  Joe  has  to  go 
too,  bein'  called  away  by  business  ;  an'  sorry  enough 
he  was  to  go.  But  he  says  to  Polly  when  he  kisses 
her  good-by  at  the  door  :  — 

"  If  you  get  lonesome,  pack  up  an'  go  to  the 
Bonnys,  my  dear,  an'  let  them  take  care  of  you; 
but  I  won't  be  no  longer  than  I  can  help." 

An'  she  gives  his  neck  a  little  wistful  squeeze, 
half  laughin',  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  an  says  :  — 

"  No,  you  mustn't,  because  no  one  can  take  such 
care  of  me  as  you  ;  an'  I  want  you,  Joe." 

Well,  it  happened  as  his  business  was  got  over 
quicker  than  he'd  looked  for,  an'  he  gets  home 
within  two  weeks.  But  when  he  gets  back  he 
doesn't  find  Polly.  Things  are  a  bit  upsot,  as  if 
she'd  gone  off  in  a  hurry,  an'  he  finds  a  little  letter 
on  the  table  as  says,  "  I've  gone  to  the  Bonnys', 
dear  Joe  —  it  was  so  lonesome  without  you." 

An'  when  he  reads  it  he  sees  tear-marks  on  it, 
an'  he  says  to  hisself,  "  Why,  here  a  tear  fell,  Polly. 
You  must  have  been  a  bit  low,  my  dear."  He  had 
that  there  letter  in  his  hand,  an'  was  still  a-lookin' 
at  it,  when  there  comes  a  knock  at  the  door  an'  he 
answers  it,  an'  in  walks  Mrs.  Bonny  herself. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "you've  come  back,  have  you? 
How  are  you,  an'  how's  Polly  ?  " 


SME  THURS  TSES.  93 

"  Polly  !  "  says  he.     "  Polly  !  " 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  she  answers  him  back,  "Pol 
ly  ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I've  been  a  bit  anxious 
about  her,  an'  that's  why  I  come  here  the  minute 
I  got  back  to  town." 

Well,  they  both  stood  still  an'  looked  at  each 
other  —  her  a  bit  impatient,  an'  him  cold  an'  dazed. 

"Mrs.  Bonny,  ma'am,"  says  he  at  last,  "Polly 
went  to  you  a  week  ago,  for  here's  the  letter  as 
tells  me  so." 

"Joe,"  says  Mrs.  Bonny,  a-fallin'  back  an'  turnin' 
pale  too,  "  Polly  aint  never  been  nigh  us  !  " 

"Then,"  says  Joe,    "  she's  dead." 

He  never  thought  of  nothin'  else  but  that  some 
cruel  thing  had  happened  as  had  cut  her  off  in  her 
innocence  an'  youth.  Think  harm  of  Polly,  as  had 
laid  her  cheek  against  his  breast  an'  begged  him  to 
come  back  to  her  ?  Lor'  bless  you,  ma'am,  he 
loved  her  far  too  tender ! 

It  was  Mrs.  Bonny  as  first  said  the  word,  for 
even  good  women  is  sometimes  hard  on  women, 
you  know.  She  followed  him  into  the  room  an' 
looked  about  her,  an'  she  broke  out  a-cryin',  angry 
an'  yet  sorrowful :  — 

"Oh,  Joe!  Joe!"  she  says.  "How  could  she 
have  the  heart  to  do  it  ?  " 

But  Joe  only  answered  her,  bewildered :  — 

"  The  heart,  ma'am  !  "  he  says.     "  Polly  ?  " 

"The  heart  to  leave  you,"  she  says.  "The 
heart  to  go  to  ruin  when  there  was  so  much  to  hold 


94  SME  THURS  TSES. 

her  back  —  the  heart  to  shame  a  honest  man  as 
loved  her,  an'  her  knowin'  what  she  did ! " 

"  Ruin,  ma'am  ?  "  says  Joe.  "  Shame,  ma'am  ? 
Polly  ?  " 

He  rouses  hisself  to  understand  what  she  meant, 
an'  he  sees  it's  what  the  other  people  will  say,  too, 
an'  he  cannot  help  it  or  save  Polly  from  it. 

"  It  isn't  true,"  he  cries,  wild-like.  "  It  isn't 
nat'ral  as  it  should  be.  She's  trusted  me  all 
along,  an'  we  was  beginnin'  to  be  happy,  an'  "  — 

"  You've  trusted  her,"  says  Mrs.  Bonny.  "  An' 
so  have  I ;  but  she's  kept  her  own  secrets,  an'  we 
knowed  she  had  'em.  An'  there's  my  'Meliar  as 
heard  of  some  fine  gentleman  a-follerin'  her  on  the 
street  an'  talkin'  to  her." 

But  Joe  stops  her. 

"  If  she  doesn't  come  back,"  he  says,  "  she's 
dead,  an'  she  died  innocent,"  an'  wouldn't  hear 
another  word. 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  his  strength  together,  he 
gets  up  and  begins  to  set  the  place  in  order,  a-mak- 
in'  it  look  just  as  much  as  if  she  was  there  as  he 
could.  He  folds  away  the  two  or  three  things  as 
she's  left  about,  an'  puts  'em  in  the  drawers  an' 
shuts  'em  up,  an'  Mrs.  Bonny  sets  a-watchin'  him. 
She  couldn't  understand  the  slow,  quiet  way  as  he 
does  everything. 

"Joe,"  she  says,  when  he's  done,  "what  do  you 
mean  ? " 

"Mrs.  Bonny,  ma'am,"  he  says,  "I  mean  to  trust 


SMETHURSTSES.  95 

her,  an'  I  mean  to  be  ready  for  her  an'  a-waitin', 
whenever  she  comes  back,  an'  /wwever." 

"  However  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Bonny. 

"Yes,  mum,"  he  says,  " howsumever,  for  love 
isn't  a  thing  as  is  easy  killed ;  but,  mind  you,  I'm 
not  afraid  as  her  soul  has  come  to  hurt,  an'  I've  no 
thought  of  givin'  her  up." 

Mrs.  Bonny,  she  sees  he's  in  earnest,  an'  she 
shakes  her  head.  She  meant  kind  enough,  but  it 
wasn't  her  as  had  been  in  love  with  Polly,  an'  had 
worked  so  hard  to  win  her.  When  she  went  Joe 
followed  her  to  the  door. 

"  Ma'am,"  he  says,  "  have  you  any  objections  as 
this  here  should  be  a  secret  betwixt  you  an'  me  ? " 

Well,  I've  no  doubt  as  it  was  a  bit  hard  on  her 
as  she  shouldn't  have  the  tellin'  of  it  and  the  talkin' 
of  it  over,  an'  she  couldn't  help  showin'  it  in  her 
looks;  but  she's  a  good  soul,  as  I've  said,  an'  she 
promises,  an'  Joe  he  answers  her,  "Thank  you, 
ma'am ;  an'  would  you  mind  givin'  me  your  hand 
on  it  ?  "  An'  she  does,  an'  so  they  part. 

You  may  think  what  the  next  week  or  so  was  to 
Joe,  when  I  tell  you  as,  though  he  tried  night  an' 
day,  he  couldn't  hear  a  word  from  Polly,  or  find  no 
sign.  An'  still  believin'  in  her,  he  wouldn't  make 
no  open  stir  an'  talk.  He  had  a  fancy  as  perhaps 
somethin'  of  her  old  trouble  had  took  her  off,  an' 
he  stuck  to  it  in  his  mind  as  she'd  come  back  an' 
tell  him  all.  An'  I  dare  say  you'll  say,  "Why 
should  he,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  simple  ?  "  Well, 


96  SME  THURS  TSES. 

ma'am,  he  had  a  reason,  an'  that  there  reason  held 
him  up  when  nothin'  else  would.  But  it  seemed  as 
if  all  hope  was  to  be  tore  from  him.  A  cleanin'  up 
the  room  one  afternoon,  he  comes  across  a  piece 
of  half-burnt  paper  as  has  lodged  in  a  corner,  an' 
in  pickin'  it  up  somethin'  catches  his  eye  as  strikes 
him  blind  an'  weak  an'  sick  —  a  few  words  writ  in 
a  fine,  flourishin'  hand,  an'  these  was  them  :  — 

"  —  wasting  your  life,  my  sweet  Polly,  on  a  stu 
pid  fellow  who  has  not  even  sense  enough  to  see 
that  you  are  making  a  sacrifice  and  breaking  your 
innocent,  foolish  heart.  Don't  break  mine,  too  — 
don't  turn  away  from  me  as  you  did  on  that  dread 
ful  night.  If  you  love  me,  trust  me.  Come  to  " — 

That  was  all,  for  the  rest  was  burnt ;  but  when 
he'd  read  it,  Joe's  hope  was  swept  away  complete. 
She'd  been  gettin'  love-letters  from  another  man, 
an'  readin'  them,  an'  keepin'  them  secret,  an'  now 
she  was  gone ! 

He  set  down,  an'  let  the  paper  drop  on  the  floor. 

"I  —  didn't  know,"  he  says,  "as  them  —  was 
women's  —  ways.  Lord  help  you,  Polly,  —  an'  me, 
—  an'  Lord  be  pitiful  to  It !  " 

There's  no  use  of  makin'  the  story  longer  than 
can  be  helped,  an'  besides,  words  wouldn't  tell 
what  sufferin'  that  there  little  back  room  saw  in  the 
three  next  weeks.  There's  no  knowin'  what  kept 
the  poor  chap  from  staggerin'  in  from  his  work 
some  night  an'  fallin'  heart-broke  in  death  on  his 

o 

lonely  hearth.     He  suffered  an'  strove  an'  bore,  an' 


SMETHURSTSES.  97 

yet  kept  his  secret  close.  He  neither  eat  nor  slept, 
his  face  growed  white  an'  haggard,  an'  his  eyes  hol 
ler.  He  kept  away  from  the  Bonnys,  an'  kept 
away  from  all  as  knowed  him.  Even  the  sight  of 
the  collection  was  too  much  for  him.  He'd  set 
there  by  the  ashes  of  the  fire  hour  after  hour  at 
night,  a-lookin'  at  the  grayness,  an'  not  carin'  to 
stir. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  he'd  say  again  an'  again  over 
slow  to  hisself  an'  the  emptiness  an'  quiet,  —  "I 
didn't  know  —  as  them  —  was  women's  ways." 

Just  five  weeks  from  the  time  as  he'd  come  home 
an'  found  his  wife  gone,  he  was  a-settin'  this  very 
way  over  the  grate  one  evenin'  at  dusk,  when  he 
hears  a  key  a-turnin'  in  the  door  gentle-like,  an'  he 
lifts  his  head  to  listen.  "  Who's  that,"  he  says,  "  as 
is  tryin'  to  come  in  ?  " 

But  the  next  minute  he  starts  up,  a-knockin'  the 
chair  over  back'ard,  his  heart  a-beatin'  loud  enough 
to  be  heard,  for  the  one  as  turned  the  key  was  in, 
an'  had  light  feet,  an'  come  an'  pushed  the  room 
door  open  an'  stood  there  a  second.  An'  it  was 
Polly,  with  a  bundle  in  her  arms.  She  didn't  look 
guilty,  bless  you,  though  she  were  a  little  pale  an' 
excited.  She  was  even  a-laughin',  in  a  shy,  happy, 
timid  way,  an'  her  eyes  was  wide  an'  shinin'. 

But  Joe,  he  weren't  strong  enough  to  bear  it. 
He  breaks  out  into  a  cry. 

"Polly,"  says  he,  "is  it  because  you're  dead  that 
you've  come  back  to  me  ?  "  An'  he  makes  a  step, 
7 


98  SMETHURSTSES. 

gropin'  an'  staggerin',  an'  would  have  fell  if  she 
hadn't  run  an'  caught  him,  an'  pushed  him  into  a 
chair. 

"Joe,"  she  cries  out,  kneeling  down  before  him, 
-  "  Joe,  dear  Joe,  what's  the  matter  ?     It's  Polly, 
an'  "  —  an'  she  puts  her  face  against  his  vest  in  the 
old  way —  "an'  you  mustn't  frighten  me." 

That,  an'  the  touch  of  her  hand  brings  him  back, 
an'  he  knows  in  a  second  as  he  has  her  safe,  an' 
then  he  catches  her  an'  begins  to  hug  her  tight,  too 
shook  to  say  a  word. 

But  she  pulls  back  a  bit,  half  frightened  an'  half 
joyful. 

"Joe, "she  says,  "didn't  you  think  I  was  at  the 
Bonnys'  ?  Have  you  been  anxious  ?  "  An'  then, 
a-laughin'  nervous-like,  "You  mustn't  squeeze  so, 
Joe  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

An'  she  lays  the  bundle  on  his  knee  an'  opens 
the  shawl  an'  shows  him  what's  in  it. 

"  He's  —  he's  only  a  little  one,"  she  says, 
a-laughin'  an'  cryin'  true  woman  fashion,  "but  he 
grows  every  day,  an'  he's  noticin'  already." 

Joe  makes  an  effort  an'  just  saves  hisself  from 
bustin'  out  in  a  sob  as  might  have  told  her  all  — 
an'  this  time  he  folds  'em  both  up  an'  holds  'em, 
a-tryin'  to  stumble  at  a  prayer  in  his  mind. 

"  Polly,"  he  says  after  a  bit,  "  tell  me  all  about  it, 
for  I  don't  understand  how  it  is  as  it's  come 
about." 

But  girl  as  she  is,  she  sees  as  there's  somethin 
behind,  an'  she  gives  him  a  long  look. 


SME  THURS  TSES.  99 

"Joe,"  she  says,  "I've  more  to  tell  than  just  how 
this  happened,  an'  when  I  lay  quiet  with  little  Joe 
on  my  arm,  I  made  up  my  mind  as  the  day  I  brought 
him  home  to  you  was  the  day  as  had  come  for  you 
to  hear  it,  an'  so  you  shall ;  but  first  I  must  lay  him 
down  an'  make  the  room  warm." 

Which  she  gets  up  an'  does,  an'  won't  let  Joe  do 
nothin'  but  watch  her,  an'  while  she's  at  it  he  sees 
her  sweet  young  face  a-workin',  an'  when  every- 
thin's  done,  an'  the  fire  burnin'  bright,  an'  the  ket 
tle  on,  an'  the  little  fellow  comfortable  on  her  arm, 
she  draws  a  little  wooden  stool  up  to  his  knees  an' 
sits  down  on  it,  an'  her  face  is  a-workin'  still. 

"  Not  as  I'm  afraid  to  tell  you  now,  Joe,  though 
I've  held  it  back  so  long;  but  sometimes  I've 
thought  as  the  day  would  never  come  when  I  could, 
an'  now  I'm  so  glad  —  so  glad,"  she  whispers. 

An'  then  a-holdin'  his  hand  an'  the  child's  too, 
she  tells  him  the  whole  story  of  what  her  secret 
was  an'  why  she  kept  it  one,  an'  as  you  may  guess 
it  was  all  about  the  man  as  Joe  had  seen  her  with. 

The  night  she'd  fainted  in  the  street  she'd  found 
out  his  cruel  heart  for  the  first  time,  an'  it  had  well- 
nigh  broke  her  own.  The  people  as  she  worked 
for  had  turned  her  off  through  hearin'  of  him,  an' 
her  own  mother,  as  was  a  hard,  strict  woman,  had 
believed  the  scandal  and  turned  against  her  too. 
An'  then  when  she  had  gone  to  him  in  her  fear  an' 
trouble  he  had  struck  her  down  with  words  as  wa? 
worse  than  blows. 


I OO  SME  THURS  TSES. 

"  But  bein'  so  young,  Joe,  an'  so  weak,"  she  says, 
"I  couldn't  forget  him,  an'  it  seemed  as  if  I 
couldn't  bear  my  life  ;  an'  I  knowed  that  if  he  come 
back  again  it  would  be  harder  to  turn  away  from 
him  than  ever.  An'  it  was  —  an'  when  he  follerred 
me  an'  tried  me  so  as  I  knowed  as  I'd  give  up  if 
there  wasn't  something  to  hold  me  strong.  An'  I 
asked  you  to  save  me  that  night,  Joe,  an'  you  said 
you  would.  Joe,"  she  whispers,  "  don't  hate  me  for 
bein'  so  near  to  sin  and  shame." 

After  a  little  while  she  tells  him  the  rest. 

"  But  even  when  he  knowed  I  was  a  good  man's 
wife  he  wouldn't  let  me  rest.  He  tried  to  see  me 
again  an'  again,  an'  wrote  me  letters  an'  besot  me 
in  every  way,  knowin'  as  I  wasn't  worthy  of  you, 
an'  didn't  love  you  as  I  ought.  But  the  time  come 
when  he  grew  weaker  an'  you  grew  stronger,  Joe. 
How  could  I  live  with  you  day  after  day  an'  see 
the  contrast  between  you,  an'  not  learn  to  love  the 
man  as  was  so  patient  an'  true  to  me,  an'  despise 
him  as  only  loved  hisself  an'  was  too  selfish  an' 
cruel  to  have  either  mercy  or  pity  ?  So  the  day 
come  when  I  knowed  I  needn't  fear  him  nor  myself 
no  more,  an'  I  told  him  so.  It  was  then  I  told  you 
I  was  goin'  to  be  happy ;  an'  Joe,  dear,  I  was  happy 
—  particular  lately.  Do  you  believe  me,  Joe?  — 
say  as  you  do." 

"  Yes,  Polly,"  says  Joe.     "  Thank  God  !  " 

"  Kiss  me,  then,"  she  says,  "  an'  kiss  little  Joe, 
an'  then  I'll  tell  you  how  the  other  come  about." 


SMETHURSTSES.  ioi 

He  did  it  prompt,  an'  with  a  heavin'  heart,  an' 
then  the  other  was  soon  told. 

"  I  hadn't  seen  him  for  a  long  time  when  you 
went  away,"  she  tells  him,  "  an'  I  thought  I'd  seen 
the  last  of  him ;  but  you  hadn't  been  gone  a  week 
before  I  met  him  face  to  face  in  the  street;  an' 
that  same  night  a  letter  come,  an'  through  me  bein' 
lonesome  an'  nervous-like,  and  seein'  him  so  deter 
mined,  it  frightened  me,  an'  I  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  go  to  the  Bonny's  an'  get  heartened  up  a  little 
before  you  come  back.  So  I  started  all  in  a  hurry 
as  soon  as  I  could  get  ready.  But  before  I'd  got 
more  than  half  way  to  my  journey's  end,  we  had  a 
accident,  —  not  much  of  a  one,  for  the  trains  as 
met  each  other  wasn't  goin'  so  fast  but  that  they 
could  be  stopped  in  time  to  save  much  real  harm 
bein'  done,  an'  people  was  mostly  badly  shook  an' 
frightened.  But  I  fainted  away,  an'  when  I  come 
to  myself  I  was  lyin'  on  a  bed  in  a  farmhouse  near 
the  line,  an'  the  farmer's  wife,  as  was  a  good  soul, 
she  was  a-takin'  care  of  me,  an'  says  she,  'Where's 
your  husband,  my  girl  ? '  an'  I  says,  *  I'm  not  sure  I 
know,  ma'am,'  an'  faints  away  again. 

"  Well,  the  next  mornin'  I  was  lyin'  there  still, 
but  little  Joe  was  on  my  arm,  an'  I  had  the  strength 
to  tell  where  I  lived,  an'  how  it  was  I  didn't  know 
where  to  send  for  you.  An'  the  farmer's  wife  was 
like  a  mother  to  me,  an'  she  cheers  me  up,  an' 
says,  '  Well,  never  mind.  Bless  us  !  what  a  joyful 
surprise  it'll  be  to  the  man  !  Think  of  that ! '  An' 


I  o  2  SME  THURS  TSES. 

I  did  think  of  it  until  I  made  up  my  mind  as  I 
wouldn't  send  no  word  at  all  until  I  could  come 
home  myself ;  for,  says  I,  *  He'  11  think  I'm  at  the 
Bonnys',  an'  it'll  save  him  bein'  worried.'  An' 
that  was  how  it  was.  Joe,"  kind  of  hesitatin', 
"  have  you  any  thin'  to  tell  me  ?  " 

She  looks  at  him  timid  an'  gentle,  and  he  looks 
down  at  the  fire. 

"Not  if  you'd  rather  not,  Joe,"  she  says;  "but  I 
thought " — 

Joe,  he  thinks  a  bit,  an'  then  answers  her  grave 
an'  slow  :  — 

"Polly,"  says  he,  "I  found  a  piece  of  that 
there  letter.  Will  you  forgive  me,  an'  let  it  pass  at 
that  for  little  Joe's  sake  ?  " 

She  stoops  down  and  kisses  his  hand,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  answers,  "  an'  for  yours  too.  You've 
more  to  forgive  than  me,  Joe,  —  an'  it  was  quite 
nat'ral." 

An'  she  never  asks  him  another  question,  but 
sets  there  sweet  an'  content,  an'  they  both  sets 
there  almost  too  happy  to  speak ;  and  there's  such 
a  look  in  her  face  as  goes  to  Joe's  heart,  an'  he 
breaks  the  quiet,  at  last,  a-sayin'  :  — 

"  Polly,  I  hope  it  aint  no  wrong  in  me  a-thinkin' 
it, — for  this  aint  no  time  for  me  to  have  none 
but  the  reverentes  tand  gratefulest  humble  heart,  — 
but  as  you  set  there  with  the  little  fellow  so  peace 
ful  on  your  breast,  I  can't  help  bein'  'minded  of 


SMETHURSTSES.  1 03 

the  Mother  as  we  see  in  the  churches,  an'  as  some 
prays  to." 

Well,  mum,  that's  the  whole  story,  an'  somehow 
it's  run  out  longer  than  I  thought  for  ;  but  there's 
nothin'  more  left  to  say,  but  that  if  you  could  see 
that  there  little  Joe  to-day  he'd  astonish  you ;  for 
though  but  five  year  old,  I'm  blessed  if  he  don't 
know  every  figger  in  the  collection  by  name,  an'  is 
as  familiar  with  Henry  the  Eighthses  fam'ly  as  I 
am  myself  •  an'  says  he  to  me  only  the  other  day, 
"Father"  —at  least—  Well,  mum,  I  suppose  I 
may  as  well  own  up  to  it,  now  I've  done,  —  though 
a  nat'ral  back'ardness  made  it  easier  for  me  to  tell 
it  the  other  way.  But  you're  right  in  supposin'  so  ; 
an'  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  to  it,  the  story  is 
mine,  —  that  there  Joe  bein'  me,  an'  Polly  my  wife, 
an'  that  there  collection  Smethurstses. 


ONE   DAY   AT   ARLE. 


ONE  day  at  Arle  —  a  tiny  scattered  fishing 
hamlet  on  the  northwestern  English  coast  — 
there  stood  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  cottages  near 
the  shore  a  woman  leaning  against  the  lintel-post 
and  looking  out :  a  woman  who  would  have  been 
apt  to  attract  a  stranger's  eye,  too  —  a  woman 
young  and  handsome.  This  was  what  a  first  glance 
would  have  taken  in ;  a  second  would  have  been 
apt  to  teach  more  and  leave  a  less  pleasant  impres 
sion.  She  was  young  enough  to  have  been  girlish, 
but  she  was  not  girlish  in  the  least.  Her  tall,  lithe, 
well-knit  figure  was  braced  against  the  door-post 
with  a  tense  sort  of  strength  ;  her  handsome  face 
was  just  at  this  time  as  dark  and  hard  in  expres 
sion  as  if  she  had  been  a  woman  with  years  of  bit 
ter  life  behind  her  ;  her  handsome  brows  were  knit, 
her  lips  were  set ;  from  head  to  foot  she  looked 
unyielding  and  stern  of  purpose. 

And  neither  form  nor  face  belied  her.     The  ear 
liest  remembrances  of  the  coast  people  concerning 


ONE   DAY  AT  ARLE.  105 

Meg  Lonas  had  not  been  over-pleasant  ones.  She 
had  never  been  a  favorite  among  them.  The  truth 
was  they  had  half  feared  her,  even  as  the  silent, 
dogged,  neglected  child  who  used  to  wander  up 
and  down  among  the  rocks  and  on  the  beach, 
working  harder  for  her  scant  living  than  the  oldest 
of  them.  She  had  never  a  word  for  them,  and 
never  satisfied  their  curiosity  upon  the  subject  of 
the  treatment  she  received  from  the  ill-conditioned 
old  grandfather  who  was  her  only  living  relative, 
and  this  last  peculiarity  had  rendered  her  more  un 
popular  than  anything  else  would  have  done.  If 
she  had  answered  their  questions  they  might  have 
pitied  her  ;  but  as  she  chose  to  meet  them  with  stub 
born  silence,  they  managed  to  show  their  dislike  in 
many  ways,  until  at  last  it  became  a  settled  point 
among  them  that  the  girl  was  an  outcast  in  their 
midst.  But  even  in  those  days  she  gave  them 
back  wrong  for  wrong  and  scorn  for  scorn ;  and  as 
she  grew  older  she  grew  stronger  of  will,  less  prone 
to  forgive  her  many  injuries  and  slights,  and  more 
prone  to  revenge  them  in  an  obstinate,  bitter  fash 
ion.  But  as  she  grew  older  she  grew  handsomer 
too,  and  the  fisher  boys  who  had  jeered  at  her  in 
her  childhood  were  anxious  enough  to  gain  her 
good-will. 

The  women  flouted  her  still,  and  she  defied 
them  openly;  the  men  found  it  wisest  to  be  humble 
in  their  rough  style,  and  her  defiance  of  them  was 
more  scornful  than  her  defiance  of  their  mothers 


IO6  ONE    DAY  AT  A  RLE. 

and  sisters.  She  would  revenge  herself  upon  them, 
and  did,  until  at  last  she  met  a  wooer  who  was 
tender  enough,  it  seemed,  to  move  her.  At  least 
so  people  said  at  first ;  but  suddenly  the  lover 
disappeared,  and  two  or  three  months  later  the 
whole  community  was  electrified  by  her  sudden 
marriage  with  a  suitor  whom  she  had  been  wont  to 
treat  worse  than  all  the  rest.  How  she  treated  him 
after  the  marriage  nobody  knew.  She  was  more 
defiant  and  silent  than  ever,  and  gossipers  gained 
nothing  by  asking  questions.  So  at  last  she  was 
left  alone. 

It  was  not  the  face  of  a  tender  wife  waiting  for 
a  loving  husband,  the  face  that  was  turned  toward 
the  sea.  If  she  had  hated  the  man  for  whom  she 
watched  she  could  not  have  seemed  more  unbend 
ing.  Ever  since  her  visitor  had  left  her  (she  had 
had  a  visitor  during  the  morning)  she  had  stood  in 
the  same  place,  even  in  the  same  position,  without 
moving,  and  when  at  last  the  figure  of  her  husband 
came  slouching  across  the  sands  homeward  she 
remained  motionless  still. 

And  surely  his  was  not  the  face  of  a  happy 
husband.  Not  a  handsome  face  at  its  dull  best, 
it  was  doubly  unprepossessing  then,  as,  pale  and 
breathless,  he  passed  the  stern  form  in  the  door 
way,  his  nervous,  reluctant  eyes  avoiding  hers. 

"  Yo'll  find  yo're  dinner  aw  ready  on  th'  table," 
she  said  to  him  as  he  passed  in. 

Everything  was  neat  enough   inside.     The  fire- 


ONE   DAY  AT  A  RLE.  IQ? 

place  was  clean  and  bright,  the  table  was  set  tidily, 
and  the  meal  upon  it  was  good  enough  in  its  way ; 
but  when  the  man  entered  he  cast  an  unsteady,  un 
comprehending  glance  around,  and  when  he  had 
flung  himself  into  a  chair  he  did  not  attempt  to 
touch  the  food,  but  dropped  his  face  upon  his  arm 
on  the  table  with  a  sound  like  a  little  groan. 

She  must  have  heard  it,  but  she  did  not  notice 
it  even  by  a  turn  of  her  head,  but  stood  erect  and 
steadfast  until  he  spoke  to  her.  She  might  have 
been  waiting  for  his  words  —  perhaps  she  was. 

"  Tha  canst  come  in  an'  say  what  tha  has  to  say 
an'  be  done  wi'  it,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  sullen, 
worn-out  fashion. 

She  turned  round  then  and  faced  him,  harder  to 
be  met  in  her  rigid  mood  than  if  she  had  been  a 
tempest. 

"  Tha  knows  what  I  ha'  getten  to  say,"  she  an 
swered,  her  tone  strained  and  husky  with  repressed 
fierceness.  "  Aye !  tha  knows  it  well  enough.  I 
ha'  not  much  need  to  tell  thee  owt.  He  comn 
here  this  morning  an'  he  towd  me  aw  I  want  to 
know  about  thee,  Seth  Lonas  —  an'  more  too." 

"  He  comn  to  me,"  put  in  the  man. 

She  advanced  towards  the  table  and  struck  it 
once  with  her  hand. 

"  Tha'st  towd  me  a  power  o'  lies,"  she  said. 
"  Tha's  lied  to  me  fro'  first  to  last  to  serve  thy 
own  eends,  an'  tha'st  gained  'em  —  tha'st  lied  me 
away  fro'  th'  man  as  wur  aw  th'  world  to  me,  but 


IO8  ONE   DAY  AT  A  RLE. 

th'  time's  comn  now  when  thy  day's  o'er  an'  his 
is  comn  agen.  Ah  !  thou  bitter  villain !  Does  ta 
mind  how  tha  comn  an'  towd  me  Dan  Morgan  had 
gone  to  th'  fair  at  Lake  wi'  that  lass  o'  Barnegats  ? 
That  wur  a  lie  an'  that  wur  th'  begin nin'.  Does  ta 
mind  how  tha  towd  me  as  he  made  light  o'  me  when 
th'  lads  an'  lasses  plagued  him,  an'  threeped  'em 
down  as  he  didna  mean  to  marry  no  such  like  lass 
as  me  —  him  as  wur  ready  to  dee  fur  me  ?  That 
wur  a  lie  an'  that  wur  th'  eendin',  as  tha  knew  it 
would  be,  fur  I  spurned  him  fro'  me  th'  very  next 
day,  an'  wouldna  listen  when  he  tried  to  straight 
en'  out.  But  he  got  at  th'  truth  at  last  when  he 
wur  fur  fro'  here,  an'  he  browt  th'  truth  back  to  me 
to-day,  an'  theer's  th'  eend  fur  thee  —  husband  or 
no." 

The  man  lay  with  his  head  upon  his  arms  until 
she  had  finished,  and  then  he  looked  up  all  white 
and  shaken  and  blind. 

"  Wilt  ta  listen  if  I  speak  to  thee  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Aye,"  she  answered,  "  listen  to  more  lies  !  " 

And  she  slipped  down  into  a  sitting  posture  on 
the  stone  door-step,  and  sat  there,  her  great  eyes 
staring  out  seaward,  her  hands  lying  loose  upon 
her  knee,  and  trembling. 

There  was  something  more  in  her  mood  than  re 
sentment.  In  this  simple  gesture  she  had  broken 
down  as  she  had  never  broken  down  in  her  life  be 
fore.  There  was  passionate  grief  in  her  face,  a 
wild  sort  of  despair,  such  as  one  gimht  see  in  a 


ONE  DAY  AT  A  RLE.  109 

suddenly-wounded,  untamed  creature.  Hers  was 
not  a  fair  nature.  I  am  not  telling  the  story  of  a 
gentle,  true-souled  woman  —  I  am  simply  relating 
the  incidents  of  one  bitter  day  whose  tragic  close 
was  the  ending  of  a  rough  romance. 

Her  life  had  been  a  long  battle  against  the 
world's  scorn  ;  she  had  been  either  on  the  offensive 
or  the  defensive  from  childhood  to  womanhood, 
and  then  she  had  caught  one  glimpse  of  light  and 
warmth,  clung  to  it  yearningly,  for  one  brief  hour, 
and  lost  it. 

Only  to-day  she  had  learned  that  she  had  lost  it 
through  treachery.  She  had  not  dared  to  believe 
in  her  bliss,  even  during  its  fairest  existence ;  and 
so,  when  light-hearted,  handsome  Dan  Morgan's 
rival  had  worked  against  him  with  false  stories  and 
false  proofs,  her  fierce  pride  had  caught  at  them, 
and  her  revenge  had  been  swift  and  sharp.  But  it 
had  fallen  back  upon  her  own  head  now.  This 
very  morning  handsome  Dan  had  come  back  again 
to  Arle,  and  earned  his  revenge,  too,  though  he 
had  only  meant  to  clear  himself  when  he  told  her 
what  chance  had  brought  to  light.  He  had  come 
back  —  her  lover,  the  man  who  had  conquered  and 
sweetened  her  bitter  nature  as  nothing  else  on 
earth  had  power  to  do  —  he  had  come  back  and 
found  her  what  she  was  —  the  wife  of  a  man  for 
whom  she  had  never  cared,  the  wife  of  the  man 
who  had  played  them  both  false,  and  robbed  her  of 
the  one  poor  gleam  of  joy  she  had  known.  She 


110  ONE  DAY  AT  A  RLE. 

had  been  hard  and  wild  enough  at  first,  but  just 
now,  when  she  slipped  down  upon  the  door-step 
with  her  back  turned  to  the  wretched  man  within — • 
when  it  came  upon  her  that,  traitor  as  he  was,  she 
herself  had  given  him  the  right  to  take  her  bright- 
faced  lover's  place,  and  usurp  his  tender  power  — 
when  the  fresh  sea-breeze  blew  upon  her  face  and 
stirred  her  hair,  and  the  warm,  rare  sunshine 
touched  her,  even  breeze  and  sunshine  helped  her 
to  the  end,  so  that  she  broke  down  into  a  sharp 
sob,  as  any  other  woman  might  have  clone,  only 
that  the  repressed  strength  of  her  poor  warped 
nature  made  it  a  sob  sharper  and  deeper  than  an 
other  woman's  would  have  been. 

"  Yo'  mought  ha'  left  me  that !  "  she  said.  "  Yo' 
mought  ha'  left  it  to  me  !  There  wur  other  women 
as  would  ha'  done  yo',  there  wur  no  other  man  on 
earth  as  would  do  me.  Yo'  knowed  what  my  life 
had  been,  an'  how  it  wur  hand  to  hand  betwixt 
other  folk  an'  me.  Yo'  knowed  how  much  I  cared 
fur  him  an'  what  he  wur  to  me.  Yo'  mought  ha' 
let  us  be.  I  nivver  harmed  yo'.  I  wouldna  harm 
yo'  so  sinful  cruel  now." 

"  Wilt  ta  listen  ? "  he  asked,  laboring  as  if  for 
breath. 

"Aye,"  she  answered  him,  "I'll  listen,  fur  tha 
conna  hurt  me  worser.  Th'  day  fur  that's  past  an' 
gone." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "listen  an'  I'll  try  to  tell  yo'. 
I  know  it's  no  use,  but  I  mun  say  a  word  or  two 


ONE   DAY  AT  ARLE.  1 1 1 

Happen  yo'  didna  know  I  loved  yo'  aw'  yo're  life  — • 
happen  yo'  didna,  but  it's  true.  When  yo'  wur  a 
little  lass  gatherin'  sea-weed  on  th'  sands  I  watched 
yo'  when  I  wur  af eared  to  speak — af eared  lest  yo'd 
gi'  me  a  sharp  answer,  fur  yo'  wur  ready  enow  wi' 
'em,  wench.  I've  watched  yo'  fur  hours  when  I 
wur  a  great  lubberly  lad,  an'  when  yo'  gettin'  to  be 
a  woman  it  wur  th'  same  thing.  I  watched  yo'  an' 
did  yo'  many  a  turn  as  yo'  knowed  nowt  about. 
When  yo'  wur  searchin'  fur  drift  to  keep  up  th'  fire 
after  th'  owd  mon  deed  an'  left  yo'  alone,  happen 
yo'  nivver  guessed  as  it  wur  me  as  heaped  little 
piles  i'  th'  nooks  o'  th'  rocks  so  as  yo'd  think  'at 
th'  tide  had  left  it  theer  —  happen  yo'  did  n't,  but  it 
wur  true.  I've  stayed  round  th?  old  house  many  a 
neet,  feared  summat  mought  harm  yo',  an'  yo'  know 
yo'  nivver  gave  me  a  good  word,  Meg.  An'  then 
Dan  comn  an'  he  made  way  wi'  yo'  as  he  made  way 
wi'  aw  th'  rest  —  men  an' women  an' children.  He 
nivver  worked  an'  waited  as  I  did  —  he  nivver 
thowt  an'  prayed  as  I  did  ;  everything  come  easy 
wi'  him  —  everything  alms  did  come  easy  wi'  him, 
an'  when  I  seed  him  so  light-hearted  an'  careless 
about  what  I  wur  cravin'  it  run  me  daft  an'  blind. 
Seemt  like  he  couldna  cling  to  it  like  I  did,  an'  I 
begun  to  fight  agen  it,  an'  when  I  heerd  about  that 
lass  o'  Barnegats  I  towd  yo',  an'  when  I  seen  yo'  be 
lieved  what  I  didna  believe  mysen,  it  run  me  dafter 
yet,  an'  I  put  more  to  what  he  said,  an'  held  back 
some,  an'  theer  it  wur  an'  theer  it  stands,  an'  if 


1 1 2  ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE. 

I've  earnt  a  curse,  lass,  I've  getten  it,  fur  —  fur  I 
thowt  yo'd  been  learnin'  to  care  fur  me  a  bit  sin' 
we  wur  wed,  an'  God  knows  I've  tried  to  treat  yo' 
fair  an'  kind  i'  my  poor  way.  It  wurna  Dan  Mor 
gan's  way,  I  know  —  his  wur  a  better  way  than 
mine,  th'  sun  shone  on  him  somehow  —  but  I've 
done  my  best  an'  truest  sin'." 

"  Yo've  done  yo're  worst,"  she  said.  "  Th'  worst 
yo'  could  do  wur  to  part  us,  an'  yo'  did  it.  If  yo'd 
been  half  a  mon  yo'  wouldna  ha'  been  content  wi' 
a  woman  yo'd  trapped  with  sayin'  '  Aye,'  an'  who 
cared  less  for  yo'  than  she  did  fur  th'  sand  on  th' 
sea-shore.  What's  what  yo've  done  sin'  to  what 
yo'  did  afore  ?  Yo'  conna  wipe  that  out  and  yo' 
conna  mak'  me  forget.  I  hate  yo',  an'  th'  worse 
because  I  wur  beginnin'  to  be  content  a  bit.  I 
hate  mysen.  I  ought  to  ha'  knowed  "  —  wildly  — 
"  he  would  ha'  knowed  whether  I  wur  true  or  false, 
poor  chap  —  he  would  ha'  knowed." 

She  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  for  a  minute, 
wringing  her  hands  in  a  passion  of  anguish  worse 
than  any  words,  but  a  minute  later  she  turned  on 
him  all  at  once. 

"  All's  o'er  betwixt  yo'  an'  me,"  she  said  with 
fierce  heat;  "do  yo'  know  that?  If  yo'  wur  half  a 
mon  yo'  would." 

He  sat  up  and  stared  at  her  humbly  and  stu 
pidly. 

"  Eh  ? "  he  said  at  last. 

"  Theer's  not  a  mon  i'  Arle  as  isna  more  to  me 


ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE.  I  1 3 

now  than  tha  art,"  she  said.  "  Some  on  'em  be 
honest,  an'  I  conna  say  that  o'  thee.  Tha  canst  get 
thee  gone  or  I'll  go  myseHi  Tha  knows't  me  well 
enow  to  know  I'll  ne'er  forgie  thee  for  what  tha's 
done.  Aye  "  —  with  the  passionate  hand-wringing 
again —  "  but  that  wunnot  undo  it." 

He  rose  and  came  to  her,  trembling  like  a  man 
with  the  ague. 

"  Yo'  dunnot  mean  that  theer,  Meg,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  You  dunnot  mean  it  word  fur  word. 
Think  a  bit." 

"  Aye,  but  I  do,"  she  answered  him,  setting  her 
white  teeth,  "  word  fur  word." 

"  Think  again,  wench."  And  this  time  he  stag 
gered  and  caught  hold  of  the  door-post.  "  Is  theer 
nowt  as'll  go  agen  th'  wrong?  I've  lived  wi'  thee 
nigh  a  year,  an'  I've  loved  thee  twenty  —  is  theer 
nowt  fur  me  ?  Aye,  lass,  'dunnot  be  too  hard.  Tha 
was  allus  harder  than  most  womankind ;  try  an'  be 
a  bit  softer  like  to'rds  th'  mon  as  risked  his  soul 
because  he  wur  a  mon  ~an'  darena  lose  thee.  Tha 
laid  thy  head  on  my  shoulder  last  neet.  Aye,  lass 
—  lass,  think  o'  that  fur  one  minnit." 

Perhaps  she  did  think  of  it,  for  surely  she  fal 
tered  a  little  —  what  woman  would  not  have  fal 
tered  at  such  a  moment  ?  —  but  the  next,  the  mem 
ory  of  the  sunny,  half-boyish  face  she  had  clung  to 
with  so  strong  a  love  rushed  back  upon  her  and 
struck  her  to  the  heart.  She  remembered  the  days 
when  her  life  had  seemed  so  full  that  she  had 


H4  ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE- 

feared  her  own  bliss ;  she  remembered  the  gallant 
speeches  and  light-hearted  wiles,  and  all  at  once 
she  cried  out  in  a  fierca^ impassioned  voice  :  "  I'll 
ne'er  forgie  thee,"  she  said — "I'll  ne'er  forgie 
thee  to  th'  last  day  o'  my  life.  What  fur  should  I  ? 
Tha's  broke  my  heart,  thou  villain  —  tha's  broke 
my  heart."  And  the  next  minute  she  had  pushed 
past  him  and  rushed  into  the  house. 

For  a  minute  or  so  after  she  was  gone  the  man 
stood  leaning  against  the  cloor  with  a  dazed  look 
in  his  pale  face.  She  meant  what  she  said  :  he 
had  known  her  long  enough  to  understand  that  she 
never  forgave  —  never  forgot.  Her  unbroken  will 
and  stubborn  strength  had  held  her  to  enmities  all 
her  life,  and  he  knew  she  was  not  to  be  won  by 
such  things  as  won  other  women.  He  knew  she 
was  harder  than  most  women,  but  his  dull  nature 
could  not  teach  him  how  bitter  must  have  been  the 
life  that  rendered  her  so.  He  had  never  thought 
of  it  —  he  did  not  think  of  it  now.  He  was  not 
blaming  her,  and  he  was  scarcely  blaming  himself. 
He  had  tried  to  make  her  happy  and  had  failed. 
There  were  two  causes  for  the  heavy  passion  of 
misery  that  was  ruling  him,  but  neither  of  them 
was  remorse. 

His  treachery  had  betrayed  him,  and  he  had  lost 
the  woman  he  had  loved  and  worked  for.  Soul 
and  body  were  sluggish  alike,  but  each  had  its  dull 
pang  of  weight  and  wretchedness. 

"  I've  come  to  th'  eend  now  surely,"  he  said, 
and,  dropping  into  her  seat,  he  hid  his  face. 


ONE  DAY  AT  AKLE.  115 

As  he  sat  there  a  choking  lump  rose  in  his 
throat  with  a  sudden  click,  and  in  a  minute  or  so 
more  he  was  wiping  away  hot  rolling  tears  with  the 
back  of  his  rough  hand. 

"I'm  forsook  somehow,"  he  said  —  "aye,  I'm 
forsook.  I'm  not  th'  soart  o'  chap  to  tak'  up  wi' 
th'  world.  She  wur  all  th'  world  I  cared  fur,  an' 
she'll  ne'er  forgie  me,  for  she's  a  hard  un  —  she  is. 
Aye  !  but  I  wur  fond  o'  her  !  I  wonder  what  she'll 
do  —  I  do  wonder  i'  my  soul  what  she's  gettin'  her 
mind  on  !  " 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  call  to  her  or  go  and 
see  what  she  was  doing.  He  had  always  stood  in 
some  dull  awe  of  her,  even  when  she  had  been 
kindest,  and  now  it  seemed  that  they  were  too  far 
apart  for  any  possibility  of  approach  at  reconcilia 
tion.  So  he  sat  and  pondered  heavily,  the  sea  air 
blowing  upon  him  fresh  and  sweet,  the  sun  shining 
soft  and  warm  upon  the  house,  and  the  few  com 
mon  flowers  in  the  strip  of  garden  whose  narrow 
shell  walks  and  borders  he  had  laid  out  for  her 
himself  with  much  clumsy  planning  and  slow  labor. 

Then  he  got  up  and  took  his  rough  working- 
jacket  over  his  arm. 

"  I  mun  go  down  to  th'  Mary  Anne,"  he  said, 
"  an'  work  a  bit,  or  we'll  ne'er  get  her  turned  o'er 
afore  th'  tide  comes  in.  That  boat's  a  moit  o' 
trouble."  And  he  sighed  heavily. 

Half-way  to  the  gate  he  stopped  before  a  cluster 
of  ground  honeysuckle,  and  perhaps  for  the  first 


Il6  ONE  DAY  AT  A  RLE. 

time  in  his  life  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  curious 
admiration  for  them. 

"  She's  powerful  fond  o'  such  loike  bits  o'  things 
—  posies  an'  such  loike,"  he  said.  "  Thems  some 
as  I  planted  to  please  her  on  th'  very  day  as  we 
were  wed.  I'll  tak'  one  or  two.  She's  main  fond 
on  'em  —  fur  such  a  hard  un." 

And  when  he  went  out  he  held  in  his  hand  two 
or  three  slender  stems  hung  with  the  tiny  pretty 
humble  bells. 

He  had  these  very  bits  of  simple  blossoms  in  his 
hand  when  he  went  down  to  where  the  Mary  Anne 
lay  on  the  beach  for  repairs.  So  his  fellow-work 
men  said  when  they  told  the  story  afterwards,  re 
membering  even  this  trivial  incident. 

He  was  in  a  strange  frame  of  mind,  too,  they  no 
ticed,  silent  and  heavy  and  absent.  He  did  not 
work  well,  but  lagged  over  his  labor,  stopping  every 
now  and  then  to  pass  the  back  of  his  hand  over  his 
brow  as  if  to  rouse  himself. 

"  Yo'  look  as  if  yo'  an'  th'  missus  had  had  afallin' 
out  an'  yo'n  getten  th'  worst  o'  th'  bargain,"  one  of 
his  comrades  said  by  way  of  rough  jest. 

They  were  fond  of  joking  with  him  about  his 
love  for  his  handsome,  taciturn  wife.  But  he  did 
not  laugh  this  time  as  he  usually  did. 

"Mind  thy  own  tackle,  lad,"  he  said  dully,  "an* 
I'll  mind  mine." 

From  that  time  he  worked  steadily  among  them 


ONE  DAY  AT  A  RLE.  1 1/ 

until  it  was  nearly  time  for  the  tide  to  rise.  The 
boat  they  were  repairing  had  been  a  difficult  job  to 
manage,  as  they  could  only  work  between  tides, 
and  now  being  hurried  they  lingered  longer  than 
usual.  At  the  last  minute  they  found  it  must  be 
moved,  and  so  were  detained. 

"  Better  leave  her  until  th'  tide  ebbs,"  said  one, 
but  the  rest  were  not  of  the  same  mind. 

tl  Nay,"  they  argued,  "  it'll  be  all  to  do  o'er  agen 
if  we  do  that.  Theer's  plenty  o'  time  if  we  look 
sharp  enow.  Heave  again,  lads." 

Then  it  was  that  with  the  help  of  straining  and 
tugging  there  came  a  little  lurch,  and  then  it  was 
that  as  the  Mary  Anne  slipped  over  on  her  side  one 
of  the  workers  slipped  with  her,  slipped  half  under 
neath  her  with  a  cry,  and  lay  on  the  sand,  held 
down  by  the  weight  that  rested  on  him. 

With  his  cry  there  broke  out  half  a  dozen  others, 
and  the  men  rushed  up  to  him  with  frightened 
faces. 

"  Are  yo'  hurt,  Seth,  lad  ?  "  they  cried.  "  Are  yo' 
crushed  or  owt  ?  " 

The  poor  fellow  stirred  a  little  and  then  looked 
up  at  them  pale  enough. 

"  Bruised  a  bit,"  he  answered  them,  "  an'  sick  a 
bit,  but  I  dunnot  think  theer's  any  bones  broke. 
Look  sharp,  chaps,  an'  heave  her  up.  She's  a  moit 
o'  weight  on  me." 

They  went  to  work  again  one  and  all,  so  relieved 
by  his  words  that  they  were  doubly  strong,  but  after 


U8  ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE. 

toiling  like  giants  for  a  while  they  were  compelled 
to  pause  for  breath.  In  falling  the  boat  had  so 
buried  herself  in  the  sand  that  she  was  harder  to 
move  than  ever.  It  had  seemed  simple  enough  at 
first,  but  it  was  not  so  simple,  after  all.  With  all 
their  efforts  they  had  scarcely  stirred  her  an  inch, 
and  their  comrade's  position  interfered  with  almost 
every  plan  suggested.  Then  they  tried  again,  but 
this  time  with  less  effect  than  before,  through  their 
fatigue.  When  they  were  obliged  to  pause  they 
looked  at  each  other  questioningly,  and  more  than 
one  of  them  turned  a  trifle  paler,  and  at  last  the 
wisest  of  them  spoke  out :  — 

"  Lads,"  he  said,  "  we  conna  do  this  oursens.  Run 
for  help,  Jem  Coulter,  an'  run  wi'  thy  might,  fur  it 
wunnot  be  so  long  afore  th'  tide'll  flow." 

Up  to  this  time  the  man  on  the  sands  had  lain 
with  closed  eyes  and  set  teeth,  but  when  he  heard 
this  his  eyes  opened  and  he  looked  up. 

"  Eh ! "  he  said,  in  that  blind,  stupid  fashion. 
"  What's  that  theer  tha's  sayin'  Mester  ?  " 

"Th'  tide,"  blundered  the  speaker.  "I  wur 
tellin'  him  to  look  sharp,  that's  aw." 

The  poor  fellow  moved  restlessly. 

"  Aye  !  aye  !  "  he  said.  "  Look  sharp  — he  mun 
do  that.  I  didna  think  o'  th'  tide."  And  he  shut 
his  eyes  again  with  a  faint  groan. 

They  strove  while  the  messenger  was  gone ;  and 
they  strove  when  he  returned  with  assistance ;  they 
strove  with  might  and  main,  until  not  a  man  among 


ONE   DAY  AT  ARLE.  119 

them  had  the  strength  of  a  child,  and  the  boldest  of 
them  were  blanching  with  a  fearful,  furtive  excite 
ment  none  dared  to  show.  A  crowd  had  gathered 
round  by  this  time  —  men  willing  and  anxious  to 
help,  women  suggesting  new  ideas  and  comforting 
the  wounded  man  in  rough,  earnest  style ;  children 
clinging  to  their  mothers'  gowns  and  looking  on  ter 
ror-stricken.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  one  of  their 
mightiest  efforts,  a  sharp  childish  voice  piped  out 
from  the  edge  of  an  anxious  group  a  brief  warning 
that  struck  terror  to  every  heart  that  beat  among 
them. 

11  Eh  !  Hesters  !  "  it  said,  "  th'  tide's  creepin'  up 
a  bit." 

The  men  looked  round  with  throbbing  pulses, 
the  women  looked  also,  and  one  of  the  younger 
ones  broke  into  a  low  cry.  "  Lord,  ha'  mercy ! " 
she  said ;  "  it'll  sweep  around  th'  Bend  afore  long, 
an'  —  an'  "  —  and  she  ended  with  a  terror  in 
her  voice  which  told  its  own  tale  without  other 
words. 

The  truth  forced  itself  upon  them  all  then.  Wo 
men  began  to  shriek  and  men  to  pray,  but,  strange 
to  say,  the  man  whose  life  was  at  stake  lay  silent, 
with  ashen  lips,  about  which  the  muscles  were 
tensely  drawn. 

His  dull  eyes  searched  every  group  in  a  dead 
despair  that  was  yet  a  passion,  in  all  its  stillness. 

"  How  long  will  it  be,"  he  asked  slowly  at  last 
—  "  th'  tide  ?  Twenty  minutes  ?  " 


120  ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE. 

"  Happen  so,"  was  the  answer.  "  An',  lad,  lad  ! 
we  conna  help  thee.  We'n  tried  our  best,  lad  "  — 
with  sobs  even  from  the  uncouth  fellow  who  spoke. 
"  Theer  is  na  one  on  us  but  'ud  leave  a  limb  be 
hind  to  save  thee,  but  theer  is  na  time  —  theer  is 
na"  — 

One  deep  groan  and  he  lay  still  again  —  quite 
still.  God  knows  what  weight  of  mortal  agony  and 
desperate  terror  crushed  him  in  that  dead,  helpless 
pause. 

Then  his  eyes  opened  as  before. 

"  I've  thowt  o'  deein',"  he  said  with  a  catch  of 
his  breath.  "I've  thowt  o'  deein',  an'  I've  won 
dered  how  it  wur  an'  what  it  felt  like.  I  never 
thowt  o'  deein'  like  this  here."  Another  pause  and 
then  — 

"  Which  o'  yo'  lads  '11  tell  my  missus  ? " 

"  Ay  !  poor  chap,  poor  chap  !  "  wailed  the  women. 
"  Who  on  'em  will  ?  " 

"  Howd  tha  noise,  wenches,"  he  said  hoarsely. 
'•  Yo'  daze  me.  Theer  is  na  time  to  bring  her  here. 
I'd  ha'  liked  to  ha'  said  a  word  to  her.  I'd  ha' 
liked  to  ha'  said  one  word;  Jem  Coulter"  —  rais 
ing  his  voice  —  "  canst  tha  say  it  fur  me  ?  " 

"Aye,"  cried  the  man,  choking  as  he  spoke, 
"surely,  surely."  And  he  knelt  down. 

"  Tell  her  'at  if  it  wur  bad  enow  —  this  here  —  it 
wur  not  so  bad  as  it  mought  ha'  been  —  fur  me.  I 
mought  ha'  fun  it  worser.  Tell  her  I'd  like  to  ha' 
said  a  word  if  I  could  —  but  I  couldna.  I'd  like  to 


ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE.  121 

ha'  heard  her  say  one  word,  as  happen  she  would 
ha'  said  if  she'd  been  here,  an'  tell  her  'at  if  she 
had  ha'  said  it  th'  tide  mought  ha'  comn  an'  wel 
come —  but  she  didna,  an'  theer  it  stands."  And 
the  sob  that  burst  from  his  breast  was  like  the  sob 
of  a  death-stricken  child.  "Happen"  —  he  said 
next  —  "  happen  one  o'  yo'  women-foak  con  say  a 
bit  o'  a  prayer  —  yo're  not  so  fur  fro'  safe  sand  but 
yo'  can  reach  it  —  happen  one  o'  yo'  ha'  a  word 
or  two  as  yo'  could  say  —  such  like  as  yo'  teach 
yo're  babbies." 

Among  these  was  one  who  had  —  thank  God, 
thank  God  !  and  so,  amid  wails  and  weeping,  rough 
men  and  little  children  alike  knelt  with  uncovered 
heads  and  hidden  eyes  while  this  one  woman  fal 
tered  the  prayer  that  was  a  prayer  for  a  dying 
man ;  and  when  it  was  ended,  and  all  rose  glancing 
fearfully  at  the  white  line  of  creeping  foam,  this 
dying  man  for  whom  they  had  prayed  lay  upon  his 
death-bed  of  sand  the  quietest  of  them  all  —  quiet 
with  a  strange  calm. 

"  Bring  me  my  jacket,"  he  said,  "  an'  lay  it  o'er 
my  face.  Theer's  a  bit  o'  a  posie  in  th'  button-hole. 
I  getten  it  out  o'  th'  missus's  garden  when  I  comn 
away.  I'd  like  to  howld  it  i'  my  hand  if  it's  theer 
yet." 

And  as  the  long  line  of  white  came  creeping  on 
ward  they  hurriedly  did  as  he  told  them  —  laid  the 
rough  garment  over  his  face,  and  gave  him  the 
humble  dying  flowers  to  hold,  and  having  done  this 


122  ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE. 

and  lingered  to  the  last  moment,  one  after  the 
other  dropped  away  with  awe-stricken  souls  until 
the  last  was  gone.  And  under  the  arch  of  sunny 
sky  the  little  shining  waves  ran  up  the  beach,  chas 
ing  each  other  over  the  glittering  sand,  catching  at 
shells  and  sea-weed,  toying  with  them  for  a  moment, 
and  then  leaving  them,  rippling  and  curling  and 
whispering,  but  creeping  —  creeping  —  creeping. 

They  gave  his  message  to  the  woman  he  had 
loved  with  all  the  desperate  strength  of  his  dull, 
yet  unchanging  nature ;  and  when  the  man  who 
gave  it  to  her  saw  her  wild,  white  face  and  hard-set 
lips,  he  blundered  upon  some  dim  guess  as  to  what 
that  single  word  might  have  been,  but  the  sharpest 
of  them  never  knew  the  stubborn  anguish  that,  fol 
lowing  and  growing  day  by  day,  crushed  her  fierce 
will  and  shook  her  heart.  She  was  as  hard  as  ever, 
they  thought ;  but  they  were  none  of  them  the  men 
or  women  to  guess  at  the  long  dormant  instinct  of 
womanhood  and  remorse  that  the  tragedy  of  this 
one  day  of  her  life  had  awakened.  She  had  said 
she  would  never  forgive  him,  and  perhaps  her  very 
strength  made  it  long  before  she  did;  but  surely 
some  subtle  chord  was  touched  by  those  heavy  last 
words,  for  when,  months  later,  her  first  love  came 
back,  faithful  and  tender,  with  his  old  tale  to  tell, 
she  would  not  listen. 

"  Nay,  lad,"  she  said,  "  I  amna  a  feather  to  blow 
wi'  th'  wind.  I've  had  my  share  o'  trouble  wi'  men 


ONE  DAY  AT  ARLE.  12$ 

foak,  an'  I  ha'  no  mind  to  try  again.  Him  as  lies 
i'  th'  churchyard  loved  me  i'  his  way  —  men  foak's 
way  is  apt  to  be  a  poor  un  —  an'  I'm  wore  out  wi' 
life.  Dunnot  come  here  courtin'  —  tak'  a  better 
woman." 

But  yet,  there  are  those  who  say  that  the  time 
will  come  when  he  will  not  plead  in  vain. 


ESMERALDA. 


TO  begin,  I  am  a  Frenchman,  a  teacher  of  lan 
guages,  and  a  poor  man,  —  necessarily  a  poor 
man,  as  the  great  world  would  say,  or  I  should  not 
be  a  teacher  of  languages,  and  my  wife  a  copyist  of 
great  pictures,  selling  her  copies  at  small  prices.  In 
our  own  eyes,  it  is  true,  we  are  not  so  poor  —  my 
Clelie  and  I.  Looking  back  upon  our  past  we  con 
gratulate  ourselves  upon  our  prosperous  condition. 
There  was  a  time  when  we  were  poorer  than  we 
are  now,  and  were  not  together,  and  were,  more 
over,  in  London  instead  of  in  Paris.  These  were 
indeed  calamities :  to  be  poor,  to  teach,  to  live 
apart,  not  even  knowing  each  other  —  and  in  Eng 
land  !  In  England  we  spent  years ;  we  instructed 
imbeciles  of  all  grades ;  we  were  chilled  by  east 
winds,  and  tortured  by  influenza ;  we  vainly  strove 
to  conciliate  the  appalling  English ;  we  were  dis 
couraged  and  desolate.  But  this,  thank  le  bon  Dieu  ! 
is  past.  We  are  united  ;  we  have  our  little  apart 
ment —  upon  the  fifth  floor,  it  is  true,  but  still  not 


ESMERALDA.  125 

hopelessly  far  from  the  Champs  Elyse'es.  Clelie 
paints  her  little  pictures,  or  copies  those  of  some 
greater  artist,  and  finds  sale  for  them.  She  is  not 
a  great  artist  herself,  and  is  charmingly  conscious 
of  the  fact. 

"  At  fifteen,"  she  says,  "  I  regretted  that  I  was 
not  a  genius ;  at  five  and  twenty,  I  rejoice  that  I 
made  the  discovery  so  early,  and  so  gave  myself 
time  to  become  grateful  for  the  small  gifts  bestowed 
upon  me.  Why  should  I  eat  out  my  heart  with 
envy?  Is  it  not  possible  that  I  might  be  a  less 
clever  woman  than  I  am,  and  a  less  lucky  one  ? " 

On  my  part  I  have  my  pupils,  —  French  pupils 
who  take  lessons  in  English,  German,  or  Italian  ; 
English  or  American  pupils  who  generally  learn 
French,  and,  upon  the  whole,  I  do  not  suffer  from 
lack  of  patrons. 

It  is  my  habit  when  Clelie  is  at  work  upon  a 
copy  in  one  of  the  great  galleries  to  accompany  her 
to  the  scene  of  her  labor  in  the  morning  and  call 
for  her  at  noon,  and,  in  accordance  with  this  habit, 
I  made  my  way  to  the  Louvre  at  midday  upon  one 
occasion  three  years  ago. 

I  found  my  wife  busy  at  her  easel  in  the  Grande 
Galerie,  and  when  I  approached  her  and  laid  my 
hand  upon  her  shoulder,  as  was  my  wont,  she 
looked  up  with  a  smile  and  spoke  to  me  in  a  cau 
tious  undertone. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  not  ten 
minutes  later.  Look  at  those  extraordinary  peo 
ple." 


1 26  ESMERALDA. 

She  still  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  up 
at  me,  but  made,  at  the  same  time,  one  of  those  in 
describable  movements  of  the  head  which  a  clever 
woman  can  render  so  significant. 

This  slight  gesture  directed  me  at  once  to  the 
extraordinary  people  to  whom  she  referred. 

"  Are  they  not  truly  wonderful  ?  "  she  asked. 

There  were  two  of  them,  evidently  father  and 
daughter,  and  they  sat  side  by  side  upon  a  seat 
placed  in  an  archway,  and  regarded  hopelessly  one 
of  the  finest  works  in  the  gallery.  The  father  was 
a  person  undersized  and  elderly.  His  face  was 
tanned  and  seamed,  as  if  with  years  of  rough  out 
door  labor;  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  his 
clothes  was  plainly  one  of  actual  suffering,  both 
physical  and  mental.  His  stiff  hands  refused  to 
meet  the  efforts  of  his  gloves  to  fit  them ;  his  body 
shrank  from  his  garments ;  if  he  had  not  been 
pathetic,  he  would  have  been  ridiculous.  But  he 
was  pathetic.  It  was  evident  he  was  not  so  attired 
of  his  own  free  will ;  that  only  a  patient  nature,  in 
ured  by  long  custom  to  discomfort,  sustained  him ; 
that  he  was  in  the  gallery  under  protest ;  that  he 
did  not  understand  the  paintings,  and  that  they 
perplexed  —  overwhelmed  him. 

The  daughter  it  is  almost  impossible  to  describe, 
and  yet  I  must  attempt  to  describe  her.  She  had 
a  slender  and  pretty  figure ;  there  were  slight 
marks  of  the  sun  on  her  face  also,  and,  as  in  her 
father's  case,  the  richness  of  her  dress  was  set  at 


ESMEKALDA.  12  J 

defiance  by  a  strong  element  of  incongruousness. 
She  had  black  hair  and  gray  eyes,  and  she  sat  with 
folded  hands  staring  at  the  picture  before  her  in 
dumb  uninterestedness. 

Clelie  had  taken  up  her  brush  again,  and  was 
touching  up  her  work  here  and  there. 

"They  have  been  here  two  hours,"  she  said. 
"  They  are  waiting  for  some  one.  At  first  they 
tried  to  look  about  them  as  others  did.  They  wan 
dered  from  seat  to  seat,  and  sat  down,  and  looked 
as  you  see  them  doing  now.  What  do  you  think  of 
them  ?  To  what  nation  should  you  ascribe  them  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  French,"  I  answered.  "  And 
they  are  not  English." 

"If  she  were  English,"  said  Clelie,  "the  girl 
would  be  more  conscious  of  herself,  and  of  what  we 
might  possibly  be  saying.  She  is  only  conscious 
that  she  is  out  of  place  and  miserable.  She  does 
not  care  for  us  at  all.  I  have  never  seen  Ameri 
cans  like  them  before,  but  I  am  convinced  that 
they  are  Americans." 

She  laid  aside  her  working  materials  and  pro 
ceeded  to  draw  on  her  gloves. 

'k  We  will  go  and  look  at  that  '  Tentation  de  St. 
Antoine '  of  Teniers,"  she  said,  "  and  we  may  hear 
them  speak.  I  confess  I  am  devoured  by  an  anx 
iety  to  hear  them  speak." 

Accordingly,  a  few  moments  later  an  amiable 
young  couple  stood  before  "  La  Tentation,"  regard 
ing  it  with  absorbed  and  critical  glances. 


128  ESMERALDA. 

But  the  father  and  daughter  did  not  seem  to  see 
us.  They  looked  disconsolately  about  them,  or  at 
the  picture  before  which  they  sat.  Finally,  how 
ever,  we  were  rewarded  by  hearing  them  speak  to 
each  other.  The  father  addressed  the  young  lady 
slowly  and  deliberately,  and  with  an  accent  which, 
but  for  my  long  residence  in  England  and  familiar 
ity  with  some  forms  of  its  patois,  I  should  find  it  im 
possible  to  transcribe. 

"  Esmeraldy,"  he  said,  "  your  ma's  a  long  time 
acomin'." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  with  the  same  accent, 
and  in  a  voice  wholly  listless  and  melancholy, 
"  she's  a  long  time." 

Clelie  favored  me  with  one  of  her  rapid  side 
glances.  The  study  of  character  is  her  grand  pas 
sion,  and  her  special  weakness  is  a  fancy  for  the 
singular  and  incongruous.  I  have  seen  her  stand 
in  silence,  and  regard  with  positive  interest  one  of 
her  former  patronesses  who  was  overwhelming  her 
with  contumelious  violence,  seeming  entirely  uncon 
scious  of  all  else  but  that  the  woman  was  of  a  spe 
cies  novel  to  her,  and  therefore  worthy  of  delicate 
observation. 

"  It  is  as  I  said,"  she  whispered.  "  They  are 
Americans,  but  of  an  order  entirely  new." 

Almost  the  next  instant  she  touched  my  arm. 

"  Here  is  the  mother !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  She  is 
coming  this  way.  See  !  " 

A  woman  advanced  rapidly  toward  our  part  of 


ESMERALDA.  I2Q 

the  gallery,  —  a  small,  angry  woman,  with  an  un 
graceful  figure,  and  a  keen  brown  eye.  She  began 
to  speak  aloud  while  still  several  feet  distant  from 
the  waiting  couple. 

"  Come  along,"  she  said.  "  I've  found  a  place 
at  last,  though  I've  been  all  the  morning  at  it, — 
and  the  woman  who  keeps  the  door  speaks  English. 

"They  call  'em,"  remarked  the  husband,  meekly 
rising,  "  con-ser-ges.  I  wonder  why." 

The  girl  rose  also,  still  with  her  hopeless,  ab 
stracted  air,  and  followed  the  mother,  who  led  the 
way  to  the  door.  Seeing  her  move  forward,  my 
wife  uttered  an  admiring  exclamation. 

"  She  is  more  beautiful  than  I  thought,"  she  said. 
"  She  holds  herself  marvelously.  She  moves  with 
the  freedom  of  some  fine  wild  creature." 

And,  as  the  party  disappeared  from  view,  her 
regret  at  losing  them  drew  from  her  a  sigh.  She 
discussed  them  with  characteristic  enthusiasm  all 
the  way  home.  She  even  concocted  a  very  prob 
able  little  romance.  One  would  always  imagine 
so  many  things  concerning  Americans.  They  were 
so  extraordinary  a  people ;  they  acquired  wealth 
by  such  peculiar  means ;  their  country  was  so  im 
mense  ;  their  resources  were  so  remarkable.  These 
persons,  for  instance,  were  evidently  persons  of 
wealth,  and  as  plainly  had  risen  from  the  people. 
The  mother  was  not  quite  so  wholly  untaught  as 
the  other  two,  but  she  was  more  objectionable. 

"  One  can  bear  with  the  large  simplicity  of  utter 
9 


1 30  ESMERALDA. 

ignorance,"  said  my  fair  philosopher.  "  One  fre 
quently  finds  it  gentle  and  unworldly,  but  the  other 
is  odious  because  it  is  always  aggressive  and  nar 
row." 

She  had  taken  a  strong  feminine  dislike  to  Mad 
ame  la  Mere. 

"  She  makes  her  family  miserable,"  she  said. 
"  She  drags  them  from  place  to  place.  Possibly 
there  is  a  lover,  — more  possibly  than  not.  The 
girl's  eyes  wore  a  peculiar  look,  —  as  if  they 
searched  for  something  far  away." 

She  had  scarcely  concluded  her  charming  little 
harangue  when  we  reached  our  destination ;  but, 
as  we  passed  through  the  entrance,  she  paused 
to  speak  to  the  curly-headed  child  of  the  concierge 
whose  mother  held  him  by  the  hand. 

"We  shall  have  new  arrivals  to-morrow,"  said 
the  good  woman,  who  was  always  ready  for  friendly 
gossip.  "  The  apartment  upon  the  first  floor,"  and 
she  nodded  to  me  significantly,  and  with  good- 
natured  encouragement.  "Perhaps  you  may  get 
pupils,"  she  added.  "They  are  Americans,  and 
speak  only  English,  and  there  is  a  young  lady, 
Madame  says." 

"  Americans  ! "  exclaimed  Clelie,  with  sudden  in 
terest. 

"  Americans,"  answered  the  concierge.  "  It  was 
Madame  who  came.  Mon  Dieu  !  it  was  wonderful ! 
So  rich  and  so  —  so  "  —  filling  up  the  blank  by  a 
shrug  of  deep  meaning. 


ESMERALDA  1 3 1 

"  It  cannot  have  been  long  since  they  were  — 
peasants,"  her  voice  dropping  into  a  cautious  whis 
per. 

"  Why  not  our  friends  of  the  Louvre  ? "  said 
Clelie  as  we  went  on  up-stairs. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  replied.     "  It  is  very  possible." 

The  next  day  there  arrived  at  the  house  number 
less  trunks  of  large  dimensions,  superintended  by 
the  small  angry  woman  and  a  maid.  An  hour  later 
came  a  carriage,  from  whose  door  emerged  the 
young  lady  and  her  father.  Both  looked  pale  and 
fagged ;  both  were  led  up-stairs  in  the  midst  of 
voluble  comments  and  commands  by  the  mother ; 
and  both,  entering  the  apartment,  seemed  swal 
lowed  up  by  it,  as  we  saw  and  heard  nothing  fur 
ther  of  them.  Clelie  was  indignant. 

"  It  is  plain  that  the  mother  overwhelms  them," 
she  said.  "  A  girl  of  that  age  should  speak  and  be 
interested  in  any  novelty.  This  one  would  be  if 
she  were  not  wretched.  And  the  poor  little  hus 
band  ! "  — 

"My  dear,"  I  remarked,  "you  are  a  feminine 
Bayard.  You  engage  yourself  with  such  ardor  in 
everybody's  wrongs." 

When  I  returned  from  my  afternoon's  work  a 
few  days  later,  I  found  Clelie  again  excited.  She 
had  been  summoned  to  the  first  floor  by  Madame. 

"  I  went  into  the  room,"  said  Clelie,  "  and  found 
the  mother  and  daughter  together.  Mademoiselle, 
who  stood  by  the  fire,  had  evidently  been  weeping. 


1 3  2  ESMERA  LDA. 

Madame  was  in  an  abrupt  and  angry  mood.  She 
wasted  no  words.  '  I  want  you  to  give  her  lessons,' 
she  said,  making  an  ungraceful  gesture  in  the 
direction  of  her  daughter.  '  What  do  you  charge  a 
lesson  ? '  And  on  my  telling  her,  she  engaged  me 
at  once.  '  It's  a  great  deal,  but  I  guess  I  can  pay 
as  well  as  other  people,'  she  remarked." 

A  few  of  the  lessons  were  given  down-stairs,  and 
then  Clelie  preferred  a  request  to  Madame. 

"  If  you  will  permit  Mademoiselle  to  come  to 
my  room,  you  will  confer  a  favor  upon  me,"  she 
said. 

Fortunately,  her  request  was  granted,  and  so  I 
used  afterward  to  come  home  and  find  Mademoi 
selle  Esmeralda  in  our  little  salon  at  work  discon 
solately  and  tremulously.  She  found  it  difficult  to 
hold  her  pencil  in  the  correct  manner,  and  one 
morning  she  let  it  drop,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Don't  you  see  I'll  never  do  it !  "  she  answered, 
miserably.  "  Don't  you  see  I  couldn't,  even  if  my 
heart  was  in  it,  and  it  aint  at  all ! " 

She  held  out  her  little  hands  piteously  for  Cle'lie 
to  look  at.  They  were  well  enough  shaped,  and 
would  have  been  pretty  if  they  had  not  been 
robbed  of  their  youthful  suppleness  by  labor. 

"  I've  been  used  to  work,"  she  said,  "  rough 
work  all  my  life,  and  my  hands  aint  like  yours." 

"But  you  must  not  be  discouraged,  Mademoi 
selle,"  said  Clelie  gently.  "  Time  "  - 

"Time/'  interposed  the  girl,  with  a  frightened 


ESMERALDA .  133 

look  in  her  pretty  gray  eyes.  "  That's  what  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  —  the  time  that's  to  come." 

This  was  the  first  of  many  outbursts  of  con 
fidence.  Afterward  she  related  to  Clelie,  with  the 
greatest  naivete,  the  whole  history  of  the  family 
affairs. 

They  had  been  the  possessors  of  some  barren 
mountain  lands  in  North  Carolina,  and  her  descrip 
tion  of  their  former  life  was  wonderful  indeed  to  the 
ears  of  the  Parisian.  She  herself  had  been  brought 
up  with  marvelous  simplicity  and  hardihood,  barely 
learning  to  read  and  write,  and  in  absolute  igno 
rance  of  society.  A  year  ago  iron  had  been  dis 
covered  upon  their  property,  and  the  result  had 
been  wealth  and  misery  for  father  and  daughter. 
The  mother,  who  had  some  vague  fancies  of  the 
attractions  of  the  great  outside  world,  was  ambi 
tious  and  restless.  Monsieur,  who  was  a  mild  and 
accommodating  person,  could  only  give  way  before 
her  stronger  will. 

"  She  always  had  her  way  with  us,"  said  Mad 
emoiselle  Esmeralda,  scratching  nervously  upon 
the  paper  before  her  with  her  pencil,  at  this  part  of 
the  relation.  "  We  did  not  want  to  leave  home, 
neither  me  nor  father,  and  father  said  more  than  I 
ever  heard  him  say  before  at  one  time.  '  Mother,' 
says  he,  Met  me  an'  Esmeraldy  stay  at  home,  an' 
you  go  an'  enjoy  your  tower.  You've  had  more 
schoolin'  an'  you'll  be  more  at  home  than  we 
should.  You're  useder  to  city  ways,  havin'  lived 


1 3  4  ESMERA  LDA . 

in  'Lizabethville.'  But  it  only  vexed  her.  People 
in  town  had  been  talking  to  her  about  traveling 
and  letting  me  learn  things,  and  she'd  set  her  mind 
on  it." 

She  was  very  simple  and  unsophisticated.  To 
the  memory  of  her  former  truly  singular  life  she 
clung  wiith  unshaken  fidelity.  She  recurred  to  it 
constantly.  The  novelty  and  luxury  of  her  new 
existence  seemed  to  have  no  attractions  for  her. 
One  thing  even  my  Clelie  found  incomprehensible, 
while  she  fancied  she  understood  the  rest  —  she 
did  not  appear  to  be  moved  to  pleasure  even  by 
our  beloved  Paris. 

"  It  is  a  true  maladie  du  pays"  Clelie  remarked 
to  me.  "And  that  is  not  all" 

Nor  was  it  all.  One  day  the  whole  truth  was 
told  amid  a  flood  of  tears. 

"I  —  I  was  going  to  be  married,"  cried  the  poor 
child.  "  I  was  to  have  been  married  the  week  the 
ore  was  found.  I  was  —  all  ready,  and  mother  - — 
mother  shut  right  down  on  us." 

Clelie  glanced  at  me  in  amazed  questioning. 

"  It  is  a  kind  of  argot  which  belongs  only  to 
Americans,"  I  answered^  in  an  undertone.  "  The 
alliance  was  broken  off."  - 

"  del !  "  exclaimed  my  Clelie  between  her  small 
shut  teeth.  "  The  woman  is  a  fiend  !  " 

She  was  wholly  absorbed  in  her  study  of  this  un 
worldly  and  untaught  nature.  She  was  full  of  sym 
pathy  for  its  trials  and  tenderness,  and  for  its  pain. 


ESMERALDA.  135 

Even  the  girl's  peculiarities  of  speech  were  full  of 
interest  to  her.  She  made  serious  and  intelligent 
efforts  to  understand  them,  as  if  she  studied  a  new 
language. 

"  It  is  not  common  argot"  she  said.  "  It  has  its 
subtleties.  One  continually  finds  somewhere  an 
original  idea  —  sometimes  even  a  bon  mot,  which 
startles  one  by  its  pointedness.  As  you  say,  how 
ever,  it  belongs  only  to  the  Americans  and  their  re 
markable  country.  A  French  mind  can  only  arrive 
at  its  climaxes  through  a  grave  and  occasionally 
tedious  research,  which  would  weary  most  persons, 
but  which,  however,  does  not  weary  me." 

The  confidence  of  Mademoiselle  Esmeralda  was 
easily  won.  She  became  attached  to  us  both,  and 
particularly  to  Cle'lie.  When  her  mother  was  ab 
sent  or  occupied,  she  stole  up-stairs  to  our  apart 
ment  and  spent  with  us  the  moments  of  leisure 
chance  afforded  her.  She  liked  our  rooms,  she 
told  my  wife,  because  they  were  small,  and  our  so 
ciety,  because  we  were  "  clever,"  which  we  dis 
covered  afterward  meant  "  amiable."  But  she  was 
always  pale  and  out  of  spirits.  She  would  sit  be 
fore  our  fire  silent  and  abstracted. 

"  You  must  not  mind  if  I  don't  talk,"  she  would 
say.  "  I  can't ;  and  it  seems  to  help  me  to  get  to 
sit  and  think  about  things-  Mother  won't  let  me 
do  it  down-stairs." 

We  became  also  familiar  with  the  father.  One 
day  I  met  him  upon  the  staircase,  and  to  my  amaze- 


136  ESMERALDA. 

ment  he  stopped  as  if  he  wished  to  address  me.  I 
raised  my  hat  and  bade  him  good-morning.  On 
his  part  he  drew  forth  a  large  handkerchief  and 
began  to  rub  the  palms  of  his  hands  with  awkward 
timidity. 

"  How-dy  ?  "  he  said. 

I  confess  that  at  the  moment  I  was  covered 
with  confusion.  I  who  was  a  teacher  of  English, 
and  flattered  myself  that  I  wrote  and  spoke  it  flu 
ently  did  not  understand.  Immediately,  however,  it 
flashed  across  my  mind  that  the  word  was  a  species 
of  salutation.  (Which  I  finally  discovered  to  be 
the  case.)  I  bowed  again  and  thanked  him,  haz 
arding  the  reply  that  my  health  was  excellent, 
and  an  inquiry  as  to  the  state  of  Madame's.  He 
rubbed  his  hands  still  more  nervously,  and  an 
swered  me  in  the  slow  and  deliberate  manner  I  had 
observed  at  the  Louvre. 

"  Thank  ye,"  he  said,  "  she's  doin'  toPable  well, 
is  mother  —  as  well  as  common.  And  she's  a-en- 
joyin'  herself,  too.  I  wish  we  was  all  "  — 

But  there  he  checked  himself  and  glanced  hastily 
about  him. 

Then  he  began  again  :  — 

"  Esmeraldy,"  he  said,  —  "Esmeraldy  thinks  a 
heap  on  you.  She  takes  a  sight  of  comfort  out  of 

Mis'  Des I  can't  call  your  name,  but  I  mean 

your  wife." 

"Madame  Desmarres,"  I  replied,  "is  rejoiced 
indeed  to  have  won  the  friendship  of  Mademoi 
selle." 


ESMERALDA.  137 

"Yes,"  he  proceeded,  "she  takes  a  sight  of 
comfort  in  you  ans  all.  An'  she  needs  comfort, 
does  Esmeraldy." 

There  ensued  a  slight  pause  which  somewhat 
embarrassed  me,  for  at  every  pause  he  regarded  me 
•with  an  air  of  meek  and  hesitant  appeal. 

"  She's  a  little  down-sperrited  is  Esmeraldy,"  he 
said.  "  An',"  adding  this  suddenly  in  a  subdued 
and  fearful  tone,  "  so  am  I." 

Having  said  this  he  seemed  to  feel  that  he  had 
overstepped  a  barrier.  He  seized  the  lapel  of  my 
coat  and  held  me  prisoner,  pouring  forth  his  con 
fessions  with  a  faith  in  my  interest  by  which  I  was 
at  once  amazed  and  touched. 

"You  see  it's  this  way,"  he  said, —  "it's  this 
way,  Mister.  We're  home  folks,  me  an'  Esmeraldy, 
an'  we're  a  long  way  from  home,  an'  it  sorter  seems 
like  we  didn't  get  no  useder  to  it  than  we  was  at 
first.  We're  not  like  mother.  Mother  she  was 
raised  in  a  town,  —  she  was  raised  in  'Lizabethville, 
—  an'  she  allers  took  to  town  ways ;  but  me  an' 
Esmeraldy,  we  was  raised  in  the  mountains,  right 
under  the  shadder  of  old  Bald,  an'  town  goes  hard 
with  us.  Seems  like  we're  allers  a  thinkin'  of  North 
Callina.  An'  mother  she  gits  outed,  which  is  likely. 
She  says  we'd  ought  to  fit  ourselves  fur  our  higher 
spear,  an'  I  dessay  we'd  ought,  —  but  you  see  it  goes 
sorter  hard  with  us.  An'  Esmeraldy  she  has  her 
trouble  an'  I  can't  help  a  sympathizin'  with  her,  fur 
young  folks  will  be  young  folks ;  an'  I  was  young 


138  ESMERALDA. 

folks  once  myself.  Once  —  once  I  sot  a  heap  o' 
store  by  mother.  So  you  see  how  it  is." 

"  It  is  very  sad,  Monsieur,"  I  answered  with 
gravity.  Singular  as  it  may  appear,  this  was  not 
so  laughable  to  me  as  it  might  seem.  It  was  so 
apparent  that  he  did  not  anticipate  ridicule.  And 
my  Clelie's  interest  in  these  people  also  rendered 
them  sacred  in  my  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  "that's  so;  an'  sometimes 
it's  wuss  than  you'd  think — when  mother's  outed. 
An'  that's  why  I'm  glad  as  Mis'  Dimar  an'  Esme- 
raldy  is  such  friends." 

It  struck  me  at  this  moment  that  he  had  some 
request  to  make  of  me.  He  grasped  the  lapel  of  my 
coat  somewhat  more  tightly  as  if  requiring  addi 
tional  support,  and  finally  bent  forward  and  ad 
dressed  me  with  caution,  "Do  you  think  as  Mis' 
Dimar  would  mind  it  ef  now  an'  then  I  was  to 
step  in  fur  Esmeraldy,  an'  set  a  little — just  in  a 
kinder  neighborin'  way.  Esmeraldy,  she  says  you're 
so  sosherble.  And  I  haint  been  sosherble  with  no 
one  fur  —  fur  a  right  smart  spell.  And  it  seems 
like  I  kinder  hanker  arter  it.  You've  no  idea, 
Mister,  how  lonesome  a  man  can  git  when  he 
hankers  to  be  sosherble  an'  haint  no  one  to  be 
sosherble  with.  Mother,  she  says,  'Go  out  on 
the  Champs  Elizy  and  promenard,'  and  I've  done 
it ;  but  some  ways  it  don't  reach  the  spot.  I  don't 
seem  to  get  sosherble  with  no  one  I've  spoke  to  — 
may  be  through  us  speakin'  different  languages, 


ESMERALDA.  139 

an'  not  comin'  to  a  imderstandin'.  I've  tried  it 
loud  an'  I've  tried  it  low  an'  encouragen',  but  some 
ways  we  never  seemed  to  get  on.  An'  ef  Mis' 
Dimar  wouldn't  take  no  exceptions  at  me  a-drop- 
pin'  in,  I  feel  as  ef  I  should  be  sorter  uplifted  —  if 
she'd  only  allow  it  once  a  week  or  even  fewer." 

"Monsieur,"  I  replied  with  warmth,  "I  beg  you 
will  consider  our  salon  at  your  disposal,  not  once 
a  week  but  at  all  times,  and  Madame  Desmarres 
would  certainly  join  me  in  the  invitation  if  she 
were  upon  the  spot." 

He  released  the  lapel  of  my  coat  and  grasped 
my  hand,  shaking  it  with  fervor. 

"Now,  that's  clever,  that  is,"  he  said.  "  An'  its 
friendly,  an'  I'm  obligated  to  ye." 

Since  he  appeared  to  have  nothing  further  to 
say  we  went  down-stairs  together.  At  the  door  we 
parted. 

"  I'm  a-goin',"  he  remarked,  "  to  the  Champs 
Elizy  to  promenard.  Where  are  you  a-goin'  ?  " 

"  To  the  Boulevard  Haussmann,  Monsieur,  to 
give  a  lesson,"  I  returned.  "  I  will  wish  you  good- 
morning." 

" Good-mornin',"  he  answered.  "Hong"  —  re 
flecting  deeply  for  a  moment  —  "  Bong  j 'ore.  I'm 
a  tryin'  to  learn  it,  you  see,  with  a  view  to  bein' 
more  sosherbler.  Bong  jore"  And  thus  took  his 
departure. 

After  this  we  saw  him  frequently.  In  fact  it  be 
came  his  habit  to  follow  Mademoiselle  Esmeralda 


140  ESMERALDA. 

in  all  her  visits  to  our  apartment.  A  few  minutes 
after  her  arrival  we  usually  heard  a  timid  knock 
upon  the  outer  door,  which  proved  to  emanate 
from  Monsieur,  who  always  entered  with  a  labori 
ous  " Bongjorc"  and  always  slipped  deprecatingly 
into  the  least  comfortable  chair  near  the  fire,  hur 
riedly  concealing  his  hat  beneath  it. 

In  him  also  my  Clelie  became  much  interested. 
On  my  own  part  I  could  not  cease  to  admire  the 
fine  feeling  and  delicate  tact  she  continually  ex 
hibited  in  her  manner  toward  him.  In  time  he 
even  appeared  to  lose  something  of  his  first  em 
barrassment  and  discomfort,  though  he  was  always 
inclined  to  a  reverent  silence  in  her  presence. 

"He  don't  say  much,  don't  father,"  said  Mad 
emoiselle  Esmeralda,  with  tears  in  her  pretty  eyes. 
"  He's  like  me,  but  you  don't  know  what  comfort 
he's  taking  when  he  sits  and  listens  and  stirs  his 
chocolate  round  and  round  without  drinking  it. 
He  doesn't  drink  it  because  he  aint  used  to  it ;  but 
he  likes  to  have  it  when  we  do,  because  he  says  it 
makes  him  feel  sosherble.  He's  trying  to  learn  to 
drink  it  too  —  he  practices  every  day  a  little  at  a 
time.  He  was  powerful  afraid  at  first  that  you'd 
take  exceptions  to  him  doing  nothing  but  stir  it 
round  ;  but  I  told  him  I  knew  you  wouldn't  for  you 
wasn't  that  kind." 

"I  find  him,"  said  Clelie  to  me,  "inexpressibly 
mournful,  —  even  though  he  excites  one  to  smiles 
upon  all  occasions.  Is  it  not  mournful  that  his 


ESMERALDA.  14! 

very  suffering  should  be  absurd.  Mon  Dieu !  he 
does  not  wear  his  clothes  —  he  bears  them  about 
with  him  —  he  simply  carries  them." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mademoiselle  Esme- 
ralda  was  rendered  doubly  unhappy.  Since  their 
residence  in  Paris  Madame  had  been  industriously 
occupied  in  making  efforts  to  enter  society.  She 
had  struggled  violently  and  indefatigably.  She 
was  at  once  persistent  and  ambitious.  She  had 
used  every  means  that  lay  in  her  power,  and,  most 
of  all,  she  had  used  her  money.  Naturally,  she  had 
found  people  upon  the  outskirts  of  good  circles 
who  would  accept  her  with  her  money.  Conse 
quently,  she  had  obtained  acquaintances  of  a  class, 
and  was  bold  enough  to  employ  them  as  stepping- 
stones.  At  all  events,  she  began  to  receive  invita 
tions,  and  to  discover  opportunities  to  pay  visits, 
and  to  take  her  daughter  with  her.  Accordingly, 
Mademoiselle  Esmeralda  was  placed  upon  exhibi 
tion.  She  was  dressed  by  experienced  artistes. 
She  was  forced  from  her  seclusion,  and  obliged  to 
drive,  and  call,  and  promenade. 

Her  condition  was  pitiable.  While  all  this  was 
torture  to  her  inexperience  and  timidity,  her  fear  of 
her  mother  rendered  her  wholly  submissive.  Each 
day  brought  with  it  some  new  trial.  She  was  ad 
mired  for  many  reasons, — by  some  for  her  wealth, 
of  which  all  had  heard  rumors ;  by  others  for  her 
freshness  and  beauty.  The  silence  and  sensitive 
ness  which  arose  from  shyness,  and  her  ignorance 


142  ESMERALDA. 

of  all  social  rules,  were  called  naivete  and  modesty, 
and  people  who  abhorred  her  mother,  not  unfre- 
quently  were  charmed  with  her,  and  consequently 
Madame  found  her  also  an  instrument  of  some 
consequence. 

In  her  determination  to  overcome  all  obstacles, 
Madame  even  condescended  to  apply  to  my  wife, 
whose  influence  over  Mademoiselle  she  was  clever 
enough  not  to  undervalue. 

"  I  want  you  to  talk  to  Mademoiselle,"  she  said. 
"  She  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  and  I  want  you  to 
give  her  some  good  advice.  You  know  what  so 
ciety  is,  and  you  know  that  she  ought  to  be  proud 
of  her  advantages,  and  not  make  a  fool  of  herself. 
Many  a  girl  would  be  glad  enough  of  what  she 
has  before  her.  She's  got  money,  and  she's  got 
chances,  and  I  don't  begrudge  her  anything.  She 
can  spend  all  she  likes  on  clothes  and  things,  and 
I'll  take  her  anywhere  if  she'll  behave  herself. 
They  wear  me  out  —  her  and  her  father.  It's  her 
father  that's  ruined  her,  and  her  living  as  she's 
done.  Her  father  never  knew  anything,  and  he's 
made  a  pet  of  her,  and  got  her  into  his  way  of 
thinking.  It's  ridiculous  how  little  ambition  they 
have,  and  she  might  marry  as  well  as  any  girl. 
There's  a  marquis  that's  quite  in  love  with  her  at 
this  moment,  and  she's  as  afraid  of  him  as  death, 
and  cries  if  I  even  mention  him,  though  he's  a  nice 
enough  man,  if  he  is  a  bit  elderly.  Now,  I  want 
you  to  reason  with  her." 


ESMERALDA.  143 

This  Clelie  told  me  afterward. 

"  And  upon  going  away,"  she  ended,  "  she  turned 
round  toward  me,  setting  her  face  into  an  inde 
scribable  expression  of  hardness  and  obstinacy. 
'I  want  her  to  understand,'  she  said,  'that  she's 
cut  off  forever  from  anything  that's  happened  be 
fore.  There's  the  Atlantic  Ocean  and  many  a  mile 
of  land  between  her  and  North  Carolina,  and  so 
she  may  as  well  give  that  up.' " 

Two  or  three  days  after  this  Mademoiselle  came 
to  our  apartment  in  great  grief.  She  had  left 
Madame  in  a  violent  ill-temper.  They  had  re 
ceived  invitations  to  a  ball  at  which  they  were  to 
meet  the  marquis.  Madame  had  been  elated,  and 
the  discovery  of  Mademoiselle's  misery  and  trepida 
tion  had  roused  her  indignation.  There  had  been 
a  painful  scene,  and  Mademoiselle  had  been  over 
whelmed  as  usual. 

She  knelt  before  the  fire  and  wept  despairingly. 

"  I'd  rather  die  than  go,"  she  said.  "  I  can't 
stand  it.  I  can't  get  used  to  it.  The  light,  and 
the  noise,  and  the  talk,  hurts  me,  and  I  don't  know 
what  I  am  doing.  And  people  stare  at  me,  and  I 
make  mistakes,  and  I'm  not  fit  for  it  —  and  —  and 
—  I'd  rather  be  dead  fifty  thousand  times  than  let 
that  man  come  near  me.  I  hate  him,  and  I'm 
afraid  of  him,  and  I  wish  I  was  dead." 

At  this  juncture  came  the  timid  summons  upon 
the  door,  and  the  father  entered  with  a  disturbed 
and  subdued  air.  He  did  not  conceal  his  hat,  but 


1 44  ESMERALDA . 

held  it  in  his  hands,  and  turned  it  round  and  round 
in  an  agitated  manner  as  he  seated  himself  beside 
his  daughter. 

"  Esmeraldy,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  take  it  so  hard, 
honey.  Mother,  she's  kinder  outed,  and  she's  not 
at  herself  rightly.  Don't  you  never  mind.  Mother 
she  means  well,  but  —  but  she's  got  a  sorter  curi 
ous  way  of  showin'  it.  She's  got  a  high  sperrit,  an' 
we'd  ought  to  'low  fur  it,  and  not  take  it  so  much 
to  heart.  Mis'  Dimar  here  knows  how  high-sper- 
rited  people  is  sometimes,  I  dessay,  —  an'  mother 
she's  got  a  powerful  high  sperrit." 

But  the  poor  child  only  wept  more  hopelessly. 
It  was  not  only  the  cruelty  of  her  mother  which  op 
pressed  her,  it  was  the  wound  she  bore  in  her  heart. 

Cle'lie's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she  regarded  her. 

The  father  Was  also  more  broken  in  spirit  than 
he  wished  it  to  appear.  His  weather-beaten  face 
assumed  an  expression  of  deep  melancholy  which 
at  last  betrayed  itself  in  an  evidently  inadvertent 
speech. 

"I  wish  — I  wish,"  he  faltered.  "Lord!  I'd 
give  a  heap  to  see  Wash  now.  I'd  give  a  heap  to 
see  him,  Esmeraldy." 

It  was  as  if  the  words  were  the  last  straw.  The 
girl  turned  toward  him  and  flung  herself  upon  his 
breast  with  a  passionate  cry. 

"Oh,  father!"  she  sobbed,  "we  sha'n't  never 
see  him  again  —  never —  never !  nor  the  mountains, 
nor  the  people  that  cared  for  us.  We've  lost  it  all, 


ESMERALDA.  145 

and  we  can't  get  it  back,  —  and  we  haven't  a  soul 
that's  near  to  us,  —  and  we're  all  alone,  —  you  and 
me,  father,  and  Wash  —  Wash,  he  thinks  we  don't 
care." 

I  must  confess  to  a  momentary  spasm  of  alarm, 
her  grief  was  so  wild  and  overwhelming.  One 
hand  was  flung  about  her  father's  neck,  and  the 
other  pressed  itself  against  her  side,  as  if  her  heart 
was  breaking. 

Clelie  bent  down  and  lifted  her  up,  consoling 
her  tenderly. 

"Mademoiselle,"  she  said,  "do  not  despair.  Le 
Bon  Dieu  will  surely  have  pity." 

The  father  drew  forth  the  large  linen  handker 
chief,  and  unfolding  it  slowly,  applied  it  to  his 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  Esmeraldy,"  he  said ;  "  don't  let  us  give 
out,  —  at  least  don't  you  give  out.  It  doesn't  mat 
ter  fur  me,  Esmeraldy,  because,  you  see,  I  must 
hold  on  to  mother,  as  I  swore  not  to  go  back  on ; 
but  you're  young  an'  likely,  Esmeraldy,  an'  don't 
you  give  out  yet,  fur  the  Lord's  sake." 

But  she  did  not  cease  weeping  until  she  had 
wholly  fatigued  herself,  and  by  this  time  there  ar 
rived  a  message  from  Madame,  who  required  her 
presence  down-stairs.  Monsieur  was  somewhat 
alarmed,  and  rose  precipitately,  but  Mademoiselle 
was  too  full  of  despair  to  admit  of  fear. 

"It's  only  the  dress-maker,"  she  said.  "You 
can  stay  where  you  are,  father,  and  she  won't 


146  ESMERALDA. 

guess  we've  been  together,  and  it'll  be  better  for  us 
both." 

And  accordingly  she  obeyed  the  summons  alone. 

Great  were  the  preparations  made  by  Madame 
for  the  entertainment.  My  wife,  to  whom  she  dis 
played  the  costumes  and  jewels  she  had  purchased, 
was  aroused  to  an  admiration  truly  feminine. 

She  had  the  discretion  to  trust  to  the  taste  of  the 
artistes,  and  had  restrained  them  in  nothing.  Con 
sequently,  all  that  was  to  be  desired  in  the  ap 
pearance  of  Mademoiselle  Esmeralda  upon  the 
eventful  evening  was  happiness.  With  her  mother's 
permission,  she  came  to  our  room  to  display  her 
self,  Monsieur  following  her  with  an  air  of  awe  and 
admiration  commingled.  Her  costume  was  rich  and 
exquisite,  and  her  beauty  beyond  criticism ;  but  as 
she  stood  in  the  centre  of  our  little  salon  to  be 
looked  at,  she  presented  an  appearance  to  move 
one's  heart.  The  pretty  young  face  which  had  by 
this  time  lost  its  slight  traces  of  the  sun  had  also 
lost  some  of  its  bloom ;  the  slight  figure  was  not  so 
round  nor  so  erect  as  it  had  been,  and  moved  with 
less  of  spirit  and  girlishness. 

It  appeared  that  Monsieur  observed  this  also, 
for  he  stood  apart  regarding  her  with  evident  de 
pression,  and  occasionally  used  his  handkerchief 
with  a  violence  that  was  evidently  meant  to  conceal 
some  secret  emotion. 

"You're  not  so  peart  as  you  was,  Esmeraldy,"  he 
remarked,  tremulously  ;  "  not  as  peart  by  a  right 


ESMERALDA.  147 

smart,  and  what  with  that,  and  what  with  your 
fixin's,  Wash  —  I  mean  the  home- folks,"  hastily  — 
"  they'd  hardly  know  ye." 

He  followed  her  down-stairs  mournfully  when 
she  took  her  departure,  and  Clelie  and  myself  be 
ing  left  alone  interested  ourselves  in  various  specu 
lations  concerning  them,  as  was  our  habit. 

"This  Monsieur  Wash,"  remarked  Clelie,  "is 
clearly  the  lover.  Poor  child !  how  passionately 
she  regrets  him,  —  and  thousands  of  miles  lie  be 
tween  them  —  thousands  of  miles  !  " 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that,  on  my  way  down 
stairs  to  make  a  trifling  purchase,  I  met  with  some 
thing  approaching  an  adventure.  It  so  chanced 
that,  as  I  descended  the  staircase  of  the  second 
floor,  the  door  of  the  first  floor  apartment  was 
thrown  open,  and  from  it  issued  Mademoiselle  Es- 
meralda  and  her  mother  on  their  way  to  their  wait 
ing  carriage.  My  interest  in  the  appearance  of  Ma 
demoiselle  in  her  white  robes  and  sparkling  jewels 
so  absorbed  me  that  I  inadvertently  brushed  against 
a  figure  which  stood  in  the  shadow  regarding  them 
also.  Turning  at  once  to  apologize,  I  found  my 
self  confronting  a  young  man,  —  tall,  powerful,  but 
with  a  sad  and  haggard  face,  and  attired  in  a  strange 
and  homely  dress  which  had  a  foreign  look. 

"  Monsieur  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  a  thousand  par 
dons.  I  was  so  unlucky  as  not  to  see  you." 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  remained 
silent,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  ladies  until  they  had 


148  ESMERALDA. 

disappeared,  and  then,  on  my  addressing  him  again, 
he  awakened,  as  it  were,  with  a  start. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  answered,  in  a  heavy 
bewildered  voice  and  in  English,  and  turning  back 
made  his  way  slowly  up  the  stairs. 

But  even  the  utterance  of  this  brief  sentence 
had  betrayed  to  my  practiced  ear  a  peculiar  accent 

—  an  accent  which,  strange  to  say,  bore  a  likeness 
to  that  of  our  friends  down-stairs,  and  which  caused 
me  to  stop  a  moment  at  the  lodge  of  the  concierge, 
and  ask  her  a  question  or  so. 

"  Have  we  a  new  occupant  upon  the  fifth  floor  ?  " 
I  inquired.  "  A  person  who  speaks  English  ?  " 

She  answered  me  with  a  dubious  expression. 

"  You  must  mean  the  strange  young  man  upon 
the  sixth,"  she  said.  "  He  is  a  new  one  and  speaks 
English.  Indeed,  he  does  not  speak  anything  else, 
or  even  understand  a,  word.  Mon  Dieu  !  the  trials 
one  encounters  with  such  persons,  —  endeavoring 
to  comprehend,  poor  creatures,  and  failing  always, 

—  and  this  one  is  worse  than  the  rest  and  looks 
more  wretched  —  as  if  he  had  not  a  friend  in  the 
world." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  How  can  one  remember  their  names  ?  —  it  is 
worse  than  impossible.  This  one  is  frightful.  But 
he  has  no  letters,  thank  Heaven.  If  there  should 
arrive  one  with  an  impossible  name  upon  it,  I 
should  take  it  to  him  and  run  the  risk." 

Naturally,  Clelie,  to  whom  I  related  the  incident, 


ESMERALDA.  1 49 

was  much  interested.  But  it  was  some  time  before 
either  of  us  saw  the  hero  of  it  again,  though  both 
of  us  confessed  to  having  been  upon  the  watch  for 
him.  The  concierge  could  only  tell  us  that  he  lived 
a  secluded  life  —  rarely  leaving  his  room  in  the  day 
time,  and  seeming  to  be  very  poor. 

"  He  does  not  work  and  eats  next  to  nothing," 
she  said.  "  Late  at  night  he  occasionally  carries 
up  a  loaf,  and  once  he  treated  himself  to  a  cup  of 
bouillon  from  the  restaurant  at  the  corner  —  but  it 
was  only  once,  poor  young  man.  He  is  at  least 
very  gentle  and  well-conducted. 

So  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  we  did  not 
see  him.  Clelie  mentioned  him  to  her  young  friend, 
but  Mademoiselle's  interest  in  him  was  only  faint 
and  ephemeral.  She  had  not  the  spirit  to  rouse 
herself  to  any  strong  emotion. 

"  I  dare  say  he's  an  American,"  she  said.  "  There 
are  plenty  of  Americans  in  Paris,  but  none  of  them 
seem  a  bit  nearer  to  me  than  if  they  were  French. 
They  are  all  rich  and  fine,  and  they  all  like  the  life 
here  better  than  the  life  at  home.  This  is  the  first 
poor  one  I  have  heard  of." 

Each  day  brought  fresh  unhappiness  to  her. 
Madame  was  inexorable.  She  spent  a  fortune  upon 
toilette  for  her,  and  insisted  upon  dragging  her  from 
place  to  place,  and  wearying  her  with  gayeties 
from  which  her  sad  young  heart  shrank.  Each  af 
ternoon  their  equipage  was  to  be  seen  upon  the 
Champs  Elysees,  and  each  evening  it  stood  before 


150  ESMERALDA. 

the  door  waiting  to  bear  them  to  some  place  of 
festivity. 

Mademoiselle's  bete  noir,  the  marquis,  who  was  a 
debilitated  roue  in  search  of  a  fortune,  attached 
himself  to  them  upon  all  occasions. 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Clelie  with  contempt,  "  she  amazes 
one  by  her  imbecility  —  this  woman.  Truly,  one 
would  imagine  that  her  vulgar  sharpness  would 
teach  her  that  his  object  is  to  use  her  as  a  tool,  and 
that  having  gained  Mademoiselle's  fortune,  he  will 
treat  them  with  brutality  and  derision." 

But  she  did  not  seem  to  see  —  possibly  she 
fancied  that  having  obtained  him  for  a  son-in-law, 
she  would  be  bold  and  clever  enough  to  outwit  and 
control  him.  Consequently,  he  was  encouraged 
and  fawned  upon,  and  Mademoiselle  grew  thin  and 
pale  and  large-eyed,  and  wore  continually  an  ex 
pression  of  secret  terror. 

Only  in  her  visits  to  our  fifth  floor  did  she  dare 
to  give  way  to  her  grief,  and  truly  at  such  times 
both  my  Clelie  and  I  were  greatly  affected.  Upon 
one  occasion  indeed  she  filled  us  both  with  alarm. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  shall  do  ? "  she  said, 
stopping  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  weeping. 
"  I'll  bear  it  as  long  as  I  can,  and  then  I'll  put  an 
end  to  it.  There's  —  there's  always  the  Seine  left, 
and  I've  laid  awake  and  thought  of  it  many  a 
night.  Father  and  me  saw  a  man  taken  out  of  it 
one  day,  and  the  people  said  he  was  a  Tyrolean, 
and  drowned  himself  because  he  was  so  poor  and 
lonely  —  and  —  and  so  far  from  home." 


ESMERALDA.  151 

Upon  the  very  morning  she  made  this  speech  I 
saw  again  our  friend  of  the  sixth  floor.  In  going 
down-stairs  I  came  upon  him,  sitting  upon  one  of 
the  steps  as  if  exhausted,  and  when  he  turned  his 
face  upward,  its  pallor  and  haggardness  startled 
me.  His  tall  form  was  wasted,  his  eyes  were 
hollow,  the  peculiarities  I  had  before  observed  were 
doubly  marked  —  he  was  even  emaciated. 

"  Monsieur,''"  I  said  in  English,  "  you  appear  in 
disposed.  You  have  been  ill.  Allow  me  to  assist 
you  to  your  room." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  he  answered.  "  It's  only 
weakness.  I  —  I  sorter  give  out.  Don't  trouble 
yourself.  I  shall  get  over  it  directly." 

Something  in  his  face,  which  was  a  very  young 
and  well-looking  one,  forced  me  to  leave  him  in 
silence,  merely  bowing  as  I  did  so.  I  felt  instinct 
ively  that  to  remain  would  be  to  give  him  addi 
tional  pain. 

As  I  passed  the  room  of  the  concierge,  however, 
the  excellent  woman  beckoned  to  me  to  approach 
her. 

"  Did  you  see  the  young  man  ? "  she  inquired 
rather  anxiously.  "  He  has  shown  himself  this 
morning  for  the  first  time  in  three  days.  There 
is  something  wrong.  It  is  my  impression  that  he 
suffers  want  —  that  he  is  starving  himself  to 
death ! " 

Her  rosy  countenance  absolutely  paled  as  she 
littered  these  last  words,  retreating  a  pace  from  me 
and  touching  my  arm  with  her  fore-finger. 


I  5  2  ESMERA  LDA . 

"  He  has  carried  up  even  less  bread  than  usual 
during  the  last  few  weeks,"  she  added,  "  and  there 
has  been  no  bouillon  whatever.  A  young  man  can 
not  live  only  on  dry  bread,  and  too  little  of  that 
.  He  will  perish  ;  and  apart  from  the  inhumanity  of 
the  thing,  it  will  be  unpleasant  for  the  other  loca- 
taires" 

I  wasted  no  time  in  returning  to  Clelie,  having 
indeed  some  hope  that  I  might  find  the  poor  fellow 
still  occupying  his  former  position  upon  the  stair 
case.  But  in  this  I  met  with  disappointment :  he 
was  gone  and  I  could  only  relate  to  my  wife  what  I 
had  heard,  and  trust  to  her  discretion.  As  I  had 
expected,  she  was  deeply  moved. 

"  It  is  terrible,"  she  said.  "  And  it  is  also  a  del 
icate  and  difficult  matter  to  manage.  But  what  can 
one  do  ?  There  is  only  one  thing  —  I  who  am  a 
woman,  and  have  suffered  privation  myself,  may 
venture." 

Accordingly,  she  took  her  departure  for  the  floor 
above.  I  heard  her  light  summons  upon  the  door 
of  one  of  the  rooms,  but  heard  no  reply.  At  last, 
however,  the  door  was  opened  gently,  and  with  a 
hesitance  that  led  me  to  imagine  that  it  was  Clelie 
herself  who  had  pushed  it  open,  and  immediately 
afterward  I  was  sure  that  she  had  uttered  an 
alarmed  exclamation.  I  stepped  out  upon  the 
landing  and  called  to  her  in  a  subdued  tone,  — 

"Clelie,"   I  said,  "did  I  hear  you  speak?" 

"  Yes,"  she  returned  from  within  the  room. 
"  Come  at  once,  and  bring  with  you  some  brandy." 


ESMERALDA.  153 

In  the  shortest  possible  time  I  had  joined  her  in 
the  room,  which  was  bare,  cold,  and  unfurnished 
—  a  mere  garret,  in  fact,  containing  nothing  but  a 
miserable  bedstead.  Upon  the  floor,  near  the  win 
dow,  knelt  Clelie,  supporting  with  her  knee  and 
arm  the  figure  of  the  young  man  she  had  come  to 
visit. 

"  Quick  with  the  brandy,"  she  exclaimed.  "  This 
may  be  a  faint,  but  it  looks  like  death."  She  had 
found  the  door  partially  open,  and  receiving  no 
answer  to  her  knock,  had  pushed  it  farther  ajar, 
and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  fallen  figure,  and  hur 
ried  to  its  assistance. 

To  be  as  brief  as  possible,  we  both  remained 
at  the  young  man's  side  during  the  whole  of  the 
night.  As  the  concierge  had  said,  he  was  perish 
ing  from  inanition,  and  the  physician  we  called  in 
assured  us  that  only  the  most  constant  attention 
would  save  his  life. 

"  Monsieur,"  delie  explained  to  him  upon  the 
first  occasion  upon  which  he  opened  his  eyes, 
"  you  are  ill  and  alone,  and  we  wish  to  befriend 
you."  And  he  was  too  weak  to  require  from  her 
anything  more  definite. 

Physically  he  was  a  person  to  admire.  In  health 
his  muscular  power  must  have  been  immense.  He 
possessed  the  frame  of  a  young  giant,  and  yet  there 
was  in  his  face  a  look  of  innocence  and  inexpe 
rience  amazing  even  when  one  recollected  his 
youth. 


I  5  4  ESMERA  LDA . 

"  It  is  the  look,"  said  Clelie,  regarding  him  at 
tentively,  — "  the  look  one  sees  in  the  faces  of 
Monsieur  and  his  daughter  down-stairs  ;  the  look 
of  a  person  who  has  lived  a  simple  life,  and  who 
knows  absolutely  nothing  of  the  world." 

It  is  possible  that  this  may  have  prepared  the 
reader  for  the  dtno&ment  which  followed ;  but  sin 
gular  as  it  may  appear,  it  did  not  prepare  either 
Cle'lie  or  myself  —  perhaps  because  we  had  seen 
the  world,  and  having  learned  to  view  it  in  a  prac 
tical  light,  were  not  prepared  to  encounter  sud 
denly  a  romance  almost  unparalleled. 

The  next  morning  I  was  compelled  to  go  out  to 
give  my  lessons  as  usual,  and  left  Clelie  with  our 
patient.  On  my  return,  my  wife,  hearing  my  foot 
steps,  came  out  and  met  me  upon  the  landing. 
She  was  moved  by  the  strongest  emotion  and  much 
excited ;  her  cheeks  were  pale  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"  Do  not  go  in  yet,"  she  said,  "  I  have  some 
thing  to  tell  you.  It  is  almost  incredible  ;  but  — - 
but  it  is  —  the  lover  !  " 

For  a  moment  we  remained  silent  —  standing 
looking  at  each  other.  To  me  it  seemed  incredible 
indeed. 

"  He  could  not  give  her  up,"  Cle'lie  went  on, 
"until  he  was  sure  she  wished  to  discard  him. 
The  mother  had  employed  all  her  ingenuity  to 
force  him  to  believe  that  such  was  the  case,  but  he 
could  not  rest  until  he  had  seen  his  betrothed  face 
to  face.  So  he  followed  her,  —  poor,  inexperi- 


ESMERALDA.  155 

enced,  and  miserable,  — -  and  when  at  last  he  saw 
her  at  a  distance,  the  luxury  with  which  she  was 
surrounded  caused  his  heart  to  fail  him,  and  he 
gave  way  to  despair." 

I  accompanied  her  into  the  room,  and  heard  the 
rest  from  his  own  lips.  He  gathered  together  all 
his  small  savings,  and  made  his  journey  in  the 
cheapest  possible  way,  —  in  the  steerage  of  the 
vessel,  and  in  third-class  carriages,  —  so  that  he 
might  have  some  trifle  left  to  subsist  upon. 

"I've  a  little  farm,"  he  said,  "and  there's  a 
house  on  it,  but  I  wouldn't  sell  that.  If  she  cared 
to  go,  it  was  all  I  had  to  take  her  to,  an'  I'd  worked 
hard  to  buy  it.  I'd  worked  hard,  early  and  late, 
always  thinking  that  some  day  we'd  begin  life  there 
together  —  Esmeraldy  and  me." 

"  Since  neither  sea,  nor  land,  nor  cruelty,  could 
separate  them,"  said  Clelie  to  me  during  the  day, 
"it  is  not  I  who  will  help  to  hold  them  apart." 

So  when  Mademoiselle  came  for  her  lesson  that 
afternoon,  it  was  Clelie's  task  to  break  the  news  to 
her,  —  to  tell  her  that  neither  sea  nor  land  lay  be 
tween  herself  and  her  lover,  and  that  he  was  faith 
ful  still. 

She  received  the  information  as  she  might  have 
received  a  blow,  — staggering  backward,  and  whit 
ening,  and  losing  her  breath ;  but  almost  immedi 
ately  afterward  she  uttered  a  sad  cry  of  disbelief 
and  anguish. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  "  it  —  it  isn't  true  !     I  won't 


156  ESMERALDA. 

believe  it  —  I  mustn't.  There's  half  the  world  be 
tween  us.  Oh,  don't  try  to  make  me  believe  it,  — 
when  it  can't  be  true  !  " 

"  Come  with  me,"  replied  Clelie. 

Never  —  never  in  my  life  has  it  been  my  fate  to 
see,  before  or  since,  a  sight  so  touching  as  the 
meeting  of  these  two  young  hearts.  When  the 
door  of  the  cold,  bare  room  opened,  and  Mademoi 
selle  Esmeralda  entered,  the  lover  held  out  his 
weak  arms  with  a  sob,  —  a  sob  of  rapture,  and  yet 
terrible  to  hear. 

"  I  thought  you'd  gone  back  on  me,  Esmeraldy," 
he  cried.  "  I  thought  you'd  gone  back  on  me." 

Clelie  and  I  turned  away  and  left  them  as  the 
girl  fell  upon  her  knees  at  his  side. 

The  effect  produced  upon  the  father  —  who  had 
followed  Mademoiselle  as  usual,  and  whom  we 
found  patiently  seated  upon  the  bottom  step  of  the 
flight  of  stairs,  awaiting  our  arrival  —  was  almost 
indescribable. 

He  sank  back  upon  his  seat  with  a  gasp,  clutch 
ing  at  his  hat  with  both  hands.  He  also  disbe 
lieved. 

"  Wash  !  "  he  exclaimed  weakly.  "  Lord,  no  ! 
Lord,  no  !  Not  Wash  !  Wash,  he's  in  North  Cal- 
lina.  Lord,  no  !  " 

"  He  is  up-stairs,"  returned  Clelie,  "  and  Mad 
emoiselle  is  with  him." 

During  the  recovery  of  Monsieur  Wash,  though 


ESMERALDA.  1 5  / 

but  little  was  said  upon  the  subject,  it  is  my  opin 
ion  that  the  minds  of  each  of  our  number  pointed 
only  toward  one  course  in  the  future. 

In  Mademoiselle's  demeanor  there  appeared  a 
certain  air  of  new  courage  and  determination, 
though  she  was  still  pallid  and  anxious.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  passed  a  climax  and  had  gained 
strength.  Monsieur,  the  father,  was  alternately 
nervous  and  dejected,  or  in  feverishly  high  spirits. 
Occasionally  he  sat  for  some  time  without  speak 
ing,  merely  gazing  into  the  fire  with  a  hand  upon 
each  knee ;  and  it  was  one  evening,  after  a  more 
than  usually  prolonged  silence  of  this  description, 
that  he  finally  took  upon  himself  the  burden  which 
lay  upon  us  unitedly. 

"  Esmeraldy,"  he  remarked,  tremulously,  and 
with  manifest  trepidation,  —  "  Esmeraldy,  I've  been 
thinkin' —  it's  time  —  we  broke  it  to  mother." 

The  girl  lost  color,  but  she  lifted  her  head 
steadily. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  answered,  "it's  time." 

"  Yes,"  he  echoed,  rubbing  his  knees  slowly, 
"  it's  time  ;  an',  Esmeraldy,  it's  a  thing  to  —  to 
sorter  set  a  man  back." 

"Yes,  father,"  she  answered  again. 

"  Yes,"  as  before,  though  his  voice  broke  some 
what  ;  "  an'  I  dessay  you  know  how  it'll  be,  Es 
meraldy,  —  that  you'll  have  to  choose  betwixt 
mother  and  Wash." 

She  sat  by  her  lover,  and  for  answer  she  dropped 
her  face  upon  his  hand  with  a  sob. 


158  ESMERALDA. 

"  An'  —  an'  you've  chose  Wash,  Esmeraldy  ?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  took  his  hat 
from  its  place  of  concealment  and  rose. 

"  It's  nat'ral,"  he  said,  "  an'  it's  right.  I  wouldn't 
want  it  no  other  way.  An'  you  mustn't  mind, 
Esmeraldy,  it's  bein'  kinder  rough  on  me,  as  can't 
go  back  on  mother,  havin'  swore  to  cherish  her 
till  death  do  us  part.  You've  allus  been  a  good 
gal  to  me,  an'  we've  thought  a  heap  on  each  other, 
an'  I  reckon  it  can  allers  be  the  same  way,  even 
though  we're  sep'rated,  fur  it's  nat'ral  you  should 
have  chose  Wash,  an'  —  an'  I  wouldn't  have  it  no 
other  way,  Esmeraldy.  Now  I'll  go  an'  have  it  out 
with  mother." 

We  were  all  sufficiently  unprepared  for  the  an 
nouncement  to  be  startled  by  it.  Mademoiselle 
Esmeralda,  who  was  weeping  bitterly,  half  sprang 
to  her  feet. 

"  To-night !  "  she  said.     "  Oh,  father  !  " 

"Yes,"  he  replied ;  "I've  been  thinking  over  it, 
an'  I  don't  see  no  other  way,  an'  it  may  as  well  be 
to-night  as  any  other  time." 

After  leaving  us  he  was  absent  for  about  an 
hour.  When  he  returned,  there  were  traces  in  his 
appearance  of  the  storm  through  which  he  had 
passed.  His  hands  trembled  with  agitation  ;  he 
even  looked  weakened  as  he  sank  into  his  chair. 
We  regarded  him  with  commiseration. 

"  It's  over,"  he  half  whispered,  "  an'  it  was  even 


ESMERALDA .  159 

rougher  than  I  thought  it  would  be.  She  was  ter 
rible  outed,  was  mother.  I  reckon  I  never  see  her 
so  outed  before.  She  jest  raged  and  tore.  It  was 
most  more  than  I  could  stand,  Esmeraldy,"  and  he 
dropped  his  head  upon  his  hands  for  support. 
"  Seemed  like  it  was  the  Markis  as  laid  heaviest 
upon  her,"  he  proceeded.  "  She  was  terrible  sot 
on  the  Markis,  an'  every  time  she  think  of  him, 
she'd  just  rear  —  she'd  just  rear.  I  never  stood  up 
agen  mother  afore,  an'  I  hope  I  sha'n't  never  have 
it  to  do  again  in  my  time.  I'm  kinder  wore  out." 

Little  by  little  we  learned  much  of  what  had 
passed,  though  he  evidently  withheld  the  most  for 
the  sake  of  Mademoiselle,  and  it  was  some  time  be 
fore  he  broke  the  news  to  her  that  her  mother's 
doors  were  closed  against  her. 

"  I  think  you'll  find  it  pleasanter  a-stoppin'  here," 
he  said,  "  if  Mis'  Dimar'll  board  ye  until  —  the 
time  fur  startin'  home.  Her  sperrit  was  so  up  that 
she  said  she  didn't  aim  to  see  you  no  more,  an'  you 
know  how  she  is,  Esmeraldy,  when  her  sperrit's  up." 

The  girl  went  and  clung  around  his  neck,  kneel 
ing  at  his  side,  and  shedding  tears. 

"Oh,  father!"  she  cried,  "you've  bore  a  great 
deal  for  me ;  you've  bore  more  than  any  one  knows, 
and  all  for  me." 

He  looked  rather  grave,  as  he  shook  his  head  at 
the  fire. 

"That's  so,  Esmeraldy,"  he  replied;  "but  we 
ailers  seemed  nigh  to  each  other,  somehow,  and 


1 6O  ESMERALDA . 

when  it  come  to  the  wust,  I  was  bound  to  kinder 
make  a  stand  fur  you,  as  I  couldn't  have  made  fur 
myself.  I  couldn't  have  done  it  fur  myself.  Lord, 
no!" 

So  Mademoiselle  remained  with  us,  and  Clelie 
assisted  her  to  prepare  her  simple  outfit,  and  in  the 
evening  the  tall  young  lover  came  into  our  apart 
ment  and  sat  looking  on,  which  aspect  of  affairs,  I 
will  confess,  was  entirely  new  to  Clelie,  and  yet  did 
not  displease  her. 

"  Their  candor  moves  me,"  she  said.  "  He 
openly  regards  her  with  adoration.  At  parting  she 
accompanies  him  to  the  door,  and  he  embraces  her 
tenderly,  and  yet  one  is  not  repelled.  It  is  the 
love  of  the  lost  Arcadia  —  serious  and  innocent." 

Finally,  we  went  with  them  one  morning  to  the 
American  Chapel  in  the  Rue  de  Berri,  and  they 
were  united  in  our  presence  and  that  of  Monsieur, 
who  was  indescribably  affected. 

After  the  completion  of  the  ceremony,  he  pre 
sented  Monsieur  Wash  with  a  package. 

"  It's  papers  as  I've  had  drawd  up  fur  Esme- 
raldy,"  he  said.  "  It'll  start  you  well  out  in  the 
world,  an'  after  me  and  mother's  gone,  there's  no 
one  but  you  and  her  to  have  rest.  The  Lord  — 
may  the  Lord  bless  ye  !  " 

We  accompanied  them  to  Havre,  and  did  not 
leave  them  until  the  last  moment.  Monsieur  was 
strangely  excited,  and  clung  to  the  hands  of  his 
daughter  and  son-in-law,  talking  fast  and  nervously, 


ESMERALDA .  1 6 1 

and  pouring  out  messages  to  be  delivered  to  his 
distant  friends. 

"  Tell  'em  I'd  like  powerful  well  to  see  'em  all, 
an'  I'd  have  come  only  —  only  things  was  kinder 
onconvenient.  Sometime,  perhaps  "  — 

But  here  he  was  obliged  to  clear  his  throat,  as  his 
voice  had  become  extremely  husky.  And,  having 
done  this,  he  added  in  an  undertone  :  — 

"You  see,  Esmeraldy,  I  couldn't,  because  of 
mother,  as  I've  swore  not  to  go  back  on.  Wash, 
he  wouldn't  go  back  on  you,  however  high  your 
sperrit  was,  an'  I  can't  go  back  on  mother." 

The  figures  of  the  young  couple  standing  at  the 
side,  Monsieur  Wash  holding  his  wife  to  his  breast 
with  one  strong  arm,  were  the  last  we  saw  as  the 
ship  moved  slowly  away. 

"  It  is  obscurity  to  which  they  are  returning,"  I 
said,  half  unconsciously. 

"  It  is  love,"  said  Clelie. 

The  father,  who  had  been  standing  apart,  came 
back  to  us,  replacing  in  his  pocket  his  handker 
chief. 

"  They  are  young  an'  likely,  you  see,"  said  Mon 
sieur,  "an'  life  before  them,  an'  it's  nat'ral  as  she 
should  have  chose  Wash,  as  was  young  too,  an'  sot 
on  her.  Lord,  it's  nat'ral,  an'  I  wouldn't  have  it 
no  otherways." 
ii 


MERE  GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 


PRUT!"  said  Annot,  her  sabots  clattering 
loudly  on  the  brick  floor  as  she  moved  more 
rapidly  in  her  wrath.  "  Prut !  Madame  Giraud,  in 
deed  !  There  was  a  time,  and  it  was  but  two  years 
ago,  that  she  was  but  plain  Mere  Giraud,  and  no 
better  than  the  rest  of  us ;  and  it  seems  to  me,  neigh 
bors,  that  it  is  not  well  to  show  pride  because  one 
has  the  luck  to  be  favored  by  fortune.  Where,  for 
sooth,  would  our  *  Madame '  Giraud  stand  if  luck 
had  not  given  her  a  daughter  pretty  enough  to  win 
a  rich  husband  ?  " 

"  True,  indeed  !  "  echoed  two  of  the  gossips  who 
were  her  admiring  listeners.  "  True,  beyond  doubt. 
Where,  indeed  ? " 

But  the  third,  a  comely,  fresh-skinned  matron, 
who  leaned  against  the  door,  and  knitted  a  stout 
gray  stocking  with  fast-clashing  needles,  did  not  ac 
quiesce  so  readily. 

"Well,  well,  neighbors,"  she  said,  "for  my  part, 
I  do  not  see  so  .much  to  complain  of.  Mere  Giraud 


MERE   GIRAUD"  S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     163 

—  she  is  still  Mere  Giraud  to  me  —  is  as  honest 
and  kindly  a  soul  as  ever.  It  is  not  she  who  has 
called  herself  Madame  Giraud  ;  it  is  others  who 
are  foolish  enough  to  fancy  that  good  luck  must 
change  one's  old  ways.  If  she  had  had  the  wish 
to  be  a  grand  personage,  would  she  not  have  left 
our  village  before  this  and  have  joined  Madame 
Legrand  in  Paris.  On  the  contrary,  however,  she 
remains  in  her  cottage,  and  is  as  good  a  neighbor 
as  ever,  even  though  she  is  fond  of  talking  of  the 
carriages  and  jewels  of  Madame  Legrand  and  her 
establishment  on  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes.  In 
fact,  I  ask  you,  who  of  us  would  not  rejoice  also  to 
be  the  mother  of  a  daughter  whose  fortune  had 
been  so  good  ?  " 

"That  also  is  true,"  commented  the  amiable 
couple,  nodding  their  white-capped  heads  with  a 
sagacious  air.  "  True,  without  doubt." 

But  Annot  replied  with  a  contemptuous  shrug  of 
her  shoulders  :  — 

"  Wait  until  Madame  Giraud  is  invited  to  visit 
the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,"  she  said.  "  We  have 
not  heard  that  this  has  happened  yet." 

"  She  would  not  go  if  she  were,  at  least  not  to 
remain.  Her  heart  has  grown  to  the  old  place  she 
bore  her  children  in,  and  she  has  herself  said  to 
me  most  sensibly  :  '  Laure  is  young,  and  will  learn 
easily  the  ways  of  the  great  world  ;  I  am  old,  and 
cannot;  I  am  better  at  home  among  my  neighbors.' 
Doubtless,  however,  in  course  of  time  she  will  pay 


164    MERE   GIRAUD' S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

Madame  Legrand  a  visit  at  her  home  in  Paris,  or 
at  the  chateau  which  Monsieur  Legrand  of  course 
possesses,  as  the  rich  and  aristocratic  always  do." 

"  Doubtless  !  "  said  Armor,  grimly  ;  "  doubt 
less." 

Honest  Jeanne  Tallot  passed  the  sneer  by,  and 
went  on  with  stout  gravity  of  demeanor :  — 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  for  which  I  somewhat 
blamed  Mere  Giraud,  and  that  is  that  I  think  she 
has  scarcely  done  her  duty  toward  Valentin.  He 
disappointed  her  by  being  an  ugly  lad  instead  of  a 
pretty  girl,  and  she  had  not  patience  with  him. 
Laure  was  the  favorite.  Whatever  Laure  did  was 
right,  and  it  was  not  so  with  the  other,  though  I 
myself  know  that  Valentin  was  a  good  lad,  and 
tender-hearted." 

"  Once,"  put  in  a  white  cap,  "  I  saw  her  beat 
him  severely  because  he  fell  with  the  little  girl  in 
his  arms  and  scratched  her  cheek,  and  it  was  not 
his  fault.  His  foot  slipped  upon  a  stone.  He  was 
carrying  the  child  carefully  and  tenderly  enough. 
You  are  right  in  calling  him  a  good  lad,  neighbor 
Tallot.  He  was  a  good  lad,  — Valentin  Giraud,  — 
and  fond  of  his  mother,  notwithstanding  that  she 
was  not  fond  of  him." 

"Yes,"  added  her  companion ;  "but  it  is  a  truth 
that  he  was  a  great  contrast  to  the  girl.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
his  long  limbs  and  awkward  body,  his  great  sad 
eyes  and  ugly  face  !  While  Laure,  —  was  she  not 
tall  and  slender  and  white,  like  a  lily  in  a  garden  ? 


MERE    GIRAUD'S  LITTLE   DAUGHTER.     165 

And  her  voice  was  like  the  ringing  of  silver,  and 
her  eyes  so  soft  and  large.  As  an  infant,  she  re 
minded  one  of  the  little  Jesu  as  one  sees  him  in 
the  churches.  No  wonder  that  Mere  Giraud  fretted 
at  the  difference  between  the  two.  And  Valentin 
was  her  first,  and  what  mother  does  not  look  for 
great  things  in  her  first  ?  We  cannot  help  feeling 
that  something  must  come  of  one's  own  charms  if 
one  has  any,  and  Mere  Giraud  was  a  handsome 
bride.  An  ugly  bantling  seems  to  offer  one  a  sort 
of  insult,  particularly  at  first,  when  one  is  young 
and  vain." 

"  There  was  no  more  beautiful  young  girl  than 
Laure  Giraud  at  sixteen,"  said  Jeanne  Tallot. 

"  And  none  more  useless,"  said  Annot  loudly. 
"  Give  me  a  young  girl  who  is  industrious  and  hon 
est.  My  Margot  is  better  provided  for  than  Laure 
Giraud  was  before  her  marriage  ;  but  her  hands 
are  not  white,  nor  is  her  waist  but  a  span  around. 
She  has  too  much  work  to  do.  She  is  not  a  tall, 
white,  swaying  creature  who  is  too  good  to  churn 
and  tend  the  creatures  who  give  her  food.  I  have 
heard  it  said  that  Laure  would  have  worked  if  her 
mother  had  permitted  it,  but  I  don't  believe  it. 
She  had  not  a  working  look.  Mademoiselle  Laure 
was  too  good  for  the  labor  of  humble  people ;  she 
must  go  to  Paris  and  learn  a  fine,  delicate  trade." 

"  But  good  came  of  it,"  put  in  Jeanne  Tallot. 
"  It  proved  all  the  better  for  her." 

"  Let  her  mother  thank  the  Virgin,  then,"  cried 


1 66    M^RE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

Annot,  contemptuously.  "  It  might  not  have  proved 
the  better  ;  it  might  have  proved  the  worse  ;  evil 
might  have  come  of  it  instead  of  good.  Who 
among  us  has  not  heard  of  such  things  ?  Did  not 
Marie  Gautier  go  to  Paris  too  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  little  one,  indeed  !  "  sighed  the  white 
caps. 

"And  in  two  years,"  added  Annot,  "her mother 
died  of  a  broken  heart." 

"  But,"  said  cheerful  Jeanne,  somewhat  dryly, 
"  Laure's  mother  is  not  dead  yet,  so  let  us  con 
gratulate  ourselves  that  to  go  to  Paris  has  brought 
luck  to  one  of  our  number  at  least,  and  let  us  deal 
charitably  with  Mere  Giraud,  who  certainly  means 
well,  and  is  only  naturally  proud  of  her  daughter's 
grandeur.  For  my  part,  I  can  afford  to  rejoice 
with  her." 

She  rolled  up  her  stout  stocking  into  a  ball,  and 
stuck  her  needles  through  it,  nodding  at  the  three 
women. 

"  I  promised  I  would  drop  in  and  spend  a  few 
minutes  with  her  this  morning,"  she  said ;  "  so  I 
will  bid  you  good-day,"  and  she  stepped  across  the 
threshold  and  trudged  off  in  the  sunshine,  her 
wooden  shoes  sounding  bravely  on  the  path. 

It  was  only  a  little  place,  —  St.  Croix,  as  we 
shall  call  it  for  want  of  a  better  name,  —  a  little 
village  of  one  street,  and  of  many  vines,  and  roses, 
and  orchards,  and  of  much  gossip.  Simple  people 
inhabited  it,  —  simple,  ignorant  folk,  who  knew 


MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     l6/ 

one  another,  and  discussed  one  another's  faults 
and  grape-crops  with  equal  frankness,  worked  hard, 
lived  frugally,  confessed  regularly,  and  slept  well. 
Devout  people,  and  ignorant,  who  believed  that  the 
little  shrines  they  erected  in  their  vineyards  brought 
blessings  upon  their  grapes,  and  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  great  world  beyond,  and  spoke  of  Paris  with 
awe,  and  even  a  shade  of  doubt.  Living  the  same 
lives  generation  after  generation,  tilling  the  same 
crops,  and  praying  before  the  same  stone  altar  in 
the  small,  quaint  church,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  when  a  change  occurred  to  any  one  of  their 
number,  it  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of  social  era. 
There  were  those  in  St.  Croix  who  had  known 
Mere  Giraud's  grandfather,  a  slow-spoken,  kindly 
old  peasant,  who  had  drunk  his  vin  ordinaire,  and 
smoked  his  pipe  with  the  poorest ;  and  there  was 
not  one  who  did  not  well  know  Mere  Giraud  her 
self,  and  who  had  not  watched  the  growth  of  the 
little  Laure,  who  had  bloomed  into  a  beauty  not 
unlike  the  beauty  of  the  white  Provence  roses 
which  climbed  over  and  around  her  mother's  cot 
tage  door.  "  Mere  Giraud's  little  daughter,"  she 
had  been  called,  even  after  she  grew  into  the  won 
derfully  tall  and  wonderfully  fair  creature  she  he- 
came  before  she  left  the  village,  accompanying  her 
brother  Valentin  to  Paris. 

"Mafoi!"  said  the  men,  "but  she  is  truly  a 
beauty,  Mere  Giraud's  little  daughter  !  " 

"  She  should  be  well  looked  to,"  said  the  wise 
acres,  —  "  Mere  Giraud's  little  daughter." 


1 68    MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

"  There  is  one  we  must  always  give  way  before," 
said  the  best-natured  among  the  girls,  "  and  that 
one  is  Mere  Giraud's  little  daughter." 

The  old  Cure'oi  the  parish  took  interest  in  her, 
and  gave  her  lessons,  and,  as  Mere  Giraud  would 
have  held  her  strictly  to  them,  even  if  she  had  not 
been  tractable  and  studious  by  nature,  she  was  bet 
ter  educated  and  more  gently  trained  than  her  com 
panions.  The  fact  was,  however,  that  she  had  not 
many  companions.  Some  element  in  her  grace  and 
beauty  seemed  to  separate  her  from  the  rest  of  her 
class.  Village  sports  and  festivities  had  little  at 
traction  for  her,  and,  upon  the  whole,  she  seemed 
out  of  place  among  them.  Her  stature,  her  fair, 
still  face,  and  her  slow,  quiet  movements,  suggested 
rather  embarrassingly  to  the  humble  feasters  the 
presence  of  some  young  princess  far  above  them. 

"Pouf!"  said  a  sharp-tongued  belle  one  day, 
"  I  have  no  patience  with  her.  She  is  so  tall,  this 
Laure,  that  one  must  be  forever  looking  up  to  her, 
and  I,  for  one,  do  not  care  to  be  forever  looking 
up." 

The  hint  of  refined  pride  in  her  demeanor  was 
Mere  Giraud's  greatest  glory. 

"  She  is  not  like  the  rest,  my  Laure,"  she  would 
say  to  her  son.  "  One  can  see  it  in  the  way  in 
which  she  holds  her  head.  She  has  the  quiet,  grave 
air  of  a  great  personage." 

There  were  many  who  wondered  that  Valentin 
showed  no  jealousy  or  distaste  at  hearing  his  sis- 


MERE   GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.      169 

ter's  praises  sounded  so  frequently  to  his  own  det 
riment.  There  was  no  praise  for  him.  The  poor, 
fond  mother's  heart  was  too  full  of  Laure.  Her 
son  had  been  a  bitter  disappointment  to  her,  and, 
to  her  mind,  was  fitted  for  nothing  but  to  make 
himself  an  adoring  slave  to  his  sister's  beauty ;  and 
this,  the  gentle,  generous  fellow  certainly  was.  He 
was  always  ready  to  serve  her ;  always  affectionate, 
always  faithful ;  and  Mere  Giraud,  who  was  blind  to, 
or  careless  of,  all  his  loving,  constant  labor  for  her 
own  comfort,  deigned  to  see  that  he  did  his  duty 
toward  Laure. 

"  He  has  at  least  the  sense  to  appreciate  her  as 
far  as  he  is  able,"  she  said. 

So  when  Valentin,  who  had  a  talent  for  engrav 
ing,  was  discovered  by  some  one  who  understood 
his  genius,  and  could  make  use  of  it,  and  was 
offered  a  place  in  the  great,  gay  city,  Mere  Giraud 
formed  an  ambitious  plan.  He  should  take  Laure 
and  find  her  a  position  also ;  she  had  the  fingers  of 
a  fair  magician,  and  could  embroider  marvelously. 
So  she  trusted  Laure  to  him,  and  the  two  bade 
farewell  to  St.  Croix  and  departed  together.  A 
month  passed,  and  then  there  came  a  letter  con 
taining  good  news.  Valentin  was  doing  well,  and 
Laure  also.  She  had  found  a  place  in  a  great 
family  where  she  was  to  embroider  and  wait  upon  a 
young  lady.  They  were  rich  people,  and  were  kind, 
and  paid  her  well,  and  she  was  happy. 

"  When  they  first  saw  her,  they  were  astonished," 


I/O    MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

wrote  the  simple,  tender  Valentin.  "  I  went  with 
her  to  present  herself.  My  employer  had  recom 
mended  her.  There  is  a  son  who  is  past  his  youth, 
and  who  has  evidently  seen  the  world.  He  is  aris 
tocratic  and  fair,  and  slightly  bald,  but  extremely 
handsome  still.  He  sat  holding  a  newspaper  in  his 
long,  white  fingers,  and  when  we  entered,  he  raised 
his  eyes  above  it  and  looked  at  Laure,  and  I  heard 
him  exclaim  under  his  breath,  '  Mon  Dieu  /'  as  if 
her  beauty  fairly  startled  him." 

When  the  Curb,  to  whom  the  proud  mother 
showed  the  letter,  read  this  part,  he  did  not  seem 
as  rejoiced  as  Mere  Giraud  had  expected.  On  the 
contrary,  he  looked  a  little  grave,  and  rubbed  his 
forehead. 

"Ah,  ah  !  "    he  said;  "there  lies  the  danger." 

"  Danger  !  "  exclaimed  Mere  Giraud,  starting. 

He  turned,  and  regarded  her  with  a  rather  hesi 
tant  air,  as  if  he  were  at  once  puzzled  and  fearful, 
—  puzzled  by  her  simplicity,  and  fearful  of  grieving 
her  unnecessarily. 

"Valentin  is  a  good  lad,"  he  said.  "Valentin 
will  be  watchful,  —  though  perhaps  he  is  too  good 
to  suspect  evil." 

Mere  Giraud  put  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  ?  "  she  said,  quite  proudly, 
beginning  at  last  to  comprehend.  "  You  are  not 
afraid  of  evil  to  Laure  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  he  answered  ;  "  surely  not." 

He  said  no  more  then,  but  he  always  asked  to 


MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE   DAUGHTER.     I /I 

see  the  letters,  and  read  them  with  great  care, 
sometimes  over  and  over  again.  They  came  very 
regularly  for  six  or  seven  months,  and  then  there 
was  a  gap  of  a  few  weeks,  and  then  came  a  strange, 
almost  incomprehensible,  letter  from  Valentin,  con 
taining  news  which  almost  caused  Mere  Giraud's 
heart  to  burst  with  joy  and  gratitude.  Laure  was 
married,  and  had  made  such  a  marriage  as  could 
scarcely  have  been  dreamed  of.  A  rich  aristocrat, 
who  had  visited  her  employers,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  and  married  her.  He  had  no  family  to 
restrain  him,  and  her  beauty  had  won  him  com 
pletely  from  the  first  hour.  He  had  carried  her 
away  with  him  to  make  a  prolonged  tour.  The 
family  with  whom  she  had  lived  had  been  lavish  in 
their  gifts  and  kindness,  but  they  had  left  Paris 
also  and  were  voyaging.  The  name  of  Laure's 
bridegroom  was  Legrand,  and  there  came  messages 
from  Laure,  and  inclosed  was  a  handsome  present 
of  money. 

Mere  Giraud  was  overwhelmed  with  joy.  Before 
three  hours  had  passed,  all  St.  Croix  knew  the 
marvelous  news.  She  went  from  house  to  house 
showing  the  letter  and  the  money,  and  it  was  not 
until  night  that  she  cooled  down  sufficiently  to 
labor  through  a  long  epistle  to  Valentin. 

It  was  a  year  before  Laure  returned  to  Paris, 
and  during  that  time  she  wrote  but  seldom  ;  but 
Valentin  wrote  often,  and  answered  all  his  mother's 
questions,  though  not  as  fluently,  nor  with  so  many 


1/2     MERE   GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

words  as  she  often  wished.  Laure  was  rich,  and 
beautiful  as  ever;  her  husband  adored  her,  and 
showered  gifts  and  luxuries  upon  her;  she  had 
equipages  and  jewels ;  she  wore  velvet  and  satin 
and  lace  every  day ;  she  was  a  great  lady,  and  had 
a  house  like  a  palace.  Laure  herself  did  not  say 
so  much.  In  her  secret  heart,  Mere  Giraud  often 
longed  for  more,  but  she  was  a  discreet  and  far- 
seeing  woman. 

"  What  would  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  She  must 
drive  out  in  her  equipage,  and  she  must  dress  and 
receive  great  people,  and  I  am  not  so  blind  a 
mother  as  not  to  see  that  she  will  have  many 
things  to  learn.  She  has  not  time  to  write  long 
letters,  —  and  see  how  she  cares  for  me,  —  money, 
see  you,  by  every  letter,  and  a  silk  dress  and  lace 
cap  she  herself  has  chosen  in  the  Boulevard  Capu- 
cines.  And  I  must  care  for  myself,  and  furnish 
the  cottage  prettily,  and  keep  a  servant.  Her 
wealth  and  great  fortune  have  not  rendered  her 
undutiful,  —  my  Laure." 

So  she  talked  of  Madame  Legrand,  and  so  all 
St.  Croix  talked  of  Madame  Legrand,  and  some,  of 
course,  were  envious  and  prophesied  that  the  end 
had  not  come  yet,  and  Mere  Giraud  would  find 
herself  forgotten  some  fine  day  ;  and  others  rejoiced 
with  her,  and  congratulated  themselves  that  they 
knew  so  aristocratic  a  person  as  Madame  Legrand. 

Jeanne  Tallot  was  of  those  who  sympathized 
with  her  in  all  warm-heartedness  and  candor. 


MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     173 

With  her  knitting  in  her  hand  ready  for  action, 
and  with  friendly  unceremoniousness,  she  presented 
herself  at  the  cottage  door  one  morning,  nodding 
and  speaking  before  she  had  crossed  the  thresh 
old. 

"  Good-day,  neighbor  Giraud.  Any  letters  from 
Laure  this  morning  ?  " 

Mere  Giraud,  who  sat  before  the  window  under 
the  swinging  cage  of  her  bird,  looked  up  with  an 
air  a  little  more  serious  than  usual. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  "  I  am  glad  it  is  you,  Jeanne. 
I  have  been  wishing  to  see  you." 

Jeanne  seated  herself,  smiling. 

"  Then,"  said  she,  "  it  is  well  I  came." 

But  immediately  she  noticed  the  absent  look  of 
her  friend,  and  commented  upon  it. 

"  You  do  not  look  at  your  best  this  morning," 
she  said.  "  How  does  it  occur  ?  " 

"  I  am  thinking,"  said  Mere  Giraud  with  some 
importance  of  manner,  —  "I  am  thinking  of  going 
to  Paris." 

"  'to  Paris  !  " 

"  I  am  anxious,"  shaking  her  head  seriously. 
"I  had  last  night  a  bad  dream.  I  wish  to  see 
Laure." 

Tjtjen  she  turned  and  looked  at  Jeanne  almost 
wistfully. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  her,"  she 
said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Jeanne  in  a  little  doubt  ;  "but 
Paris  is  a  long  way  off." 


1/4    MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mere  Giraud  ;  "but  it  appears  that 
all  at  once  I  realize  how  long  it  is  since  I  have 
seen  my  child.  I  am  getting  old,  you  see.  I  was 
not  very  young  when  she  was  born,  and,  as  one 
grows  older,  one  becomes  more  uneasy  and  obsti 
nate  in  one's  fancies.  This  morning  I  feel  that  I 
must  see  my  Laure.  My  heart  yearns  for  her, 
and"  —  hastily — "she  will  undoubtedly  be  re 
joiced  to  see  me.  She  has  often  said  that  she 
wished  she  might  lay  her  head  upon  my  breast 
again." 

It  seemed  that  she  was  resolved  upon  the  jour 
ney.  She  was  in  a  singular,  uneasy  mood,  and 
restless  beyond  measure.  She  who  had  never  been 
twenty  miles  from  St.  Croix  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  leave  it  at  once  and  confront  all  the  terrors  of  a 
journey  to  Paris,  — for  there  were  terrors  in  such  a 
journey  to  the  mind  of  a,  simple  peasant  who  had 
so  far  traveled  but  in  one  groove.  She  would  not 
even  wait  to  consult  Monsieur  le  Cure,  who  was  un 
fortunately  absent.  Jeanne  discovered  to  her  as 
tonishment  that  she  had  already  made  her  small 
preparations,  had  packed  her  best  garments  in  a 
little  wooden  box,  laying  the  silk  gown  and  lace 
cap  at  the  top  that  they  might  be  in  readiness. 

"  I  will  not  interfere  at  all,  and  I  shall  not  re 
main  long,"  she  said.  "  Only  long  enough  to  see 
my  Laure,  and  spend  a  few  days  with  her  quietly. 
It  is  not  Paris  I  care  for,  or  the  great  sights  ;  it  is 
that  I  must  see  my  child." 


MERE    GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     175 

St.  Croix  was  fairly  bewildered  at  the  news  it 
heard  the  next  day.  Mere  Giraud  had  gone  to 
Paris  to  visit  Madame  Legrand  —  had  actually 
gone,  sending  her  little  servant  home,  and  shutting 
up  her  small,  trim  cottage. 

"  Let  us  hope  that  Madame  Legrand  will  receive 
her  as  she  expects  to  be  received,"  said  Annot. 
"  For  my  part  I  should  have  preferred  to  remain  in 
St.  Croix.  Only  yesterday  Jeanne  Tallot  told  us 
that  she  had  no  intention  of  going." 

"  She  will  see  wonderful  things,"  said  the  more 
simple  and  amiable.  "  It  is  possible  that  she  may 
be  invited  to  the  Tuileries,  and  without  doubt  she 
will  drive  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  in  Madame  Le 
grand 's  carriage,  with  servants  in  livery  to  attend 
her.  My  uncle's  sister's  son,  who  is  a  valet  de  place 
in  a  great  family,  tells  us  that  the  aristocracy  drive 
up  and  down  the  Champs  Eflysees  every  afternoon, 
and  the  sight  is  magnificent." 

But  Mere  Giraud  did  not  look  forward  to  such 
splendors  as  these.  "  I  shall  see  my  Laure  as  a 
great  lady,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  shall  hold  her 
white  hands  and  kiss  her  cheeks." 

The  roar  of  vehicles,  and  the  rush  and  crowd  and 
bustle  bewildered  her ;  the  brightness  and  the  roll 
ing  wheels  dazzled  her  old  eyes,  but  she  held  her 
self  bravely.  People  to  whom  she  spoke  smiled  at 
her  patois  and  her  innocent  questions,  but  she  did 
not  care. 

She  found  a  fiacre  which  took  her  to  her  destina- 


i;6     MERE    GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

tion ;  and  when,  after  she  had  paid  the  driver,  he 
left  her,  she  entered  the  wide  doors  with  a  beating 
heart,  the  blood  rising  on  her  cheek,  and  glowing 
through  the  withered  skin. 

"  Madame  Legrand,"  she  said  a  little  proudly  to 
the  concierge,  and  the  woman  stared  at  her  as  she 
led  her  up  the  staircase.  She  was  so  eager  that 
she  scarcely  saw  the  beauty  around  her,  —  the 
thick,  soft  carpets,  the  carved  balustrades,  the  su 
perb  lamps.  But  when  they  stopped  before  a  door 
she  touched  the  concierge  upon  the  arm. 

"  Do  not  say  my  name,"  she  said.  "  I  am  her 
mother." 

The  woman  stared  at  her  more  than  ever. 

"  It  is  not  my  place  to  announce  you,"  she  said. 
"  I  only  came  up  because  I  thought  you  would  not 
find  the  way." 

She  could  not  have  told  why  it  was  or  how  it 
happened,  but  when  at  last  she  was  ushered  into 
the  salon  a  strange  sense  of  oppression  fell  upon 
her.  The  room  was  long  and  lofty,  and  so  shad 
owed  by  the  heavy  curtains  falling  across  the  win 
dows  that  it  was  almost  dark. 

For  a  few  seconds  she  saw  nobody,  and  then  all 
at  once  some  one  rose  from  a  reclining  chair  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  apartment  and  advanced  a 
few  steps  toward  her  —  a  tall  and  stately  figure, 
moving  slowly. 

"  Who  ?  "  —  she  heard  a  cold,  soft  voice  say, 
and  then  came  a  sharp  cry,  and  Laure's  white 


MERE   GIRAUD' S  LITTLE   DAUGHTER.     177 

hands  were  thrown  out  in  a  strange,  desperate  gest 
ure,  and  she  stopped  and  stood  like  a  statue  of 
stone.  "Mother  —  mother  —  mother!  "  she  re 
peated  again  and  again,  as  if  some  indescribable 
pain  shook  her. 

If  she  had  been  beautiful  before,  now  she  was 
more  beautiful  still.  She  was  even  taller  than 
ever,  —  she  was  like  a  queen.  Her  long  robe  was 
of  delicate  gray  velvet,  and  her  hair  and  throat  and 
wrists  were  bound  with  pearls  and  gold.  She  was 
so  lovely  and  so  stately  that  for  a  moment  Mere 
Giraud  was  half  awed,  but  the  next  it  was  as  if  her 
strong  mother  heart  broke  loose. 

"  My  Laure  !  "  she  cried  out.  "  Yes,  it  is  I,  my 
child  —  it  is  I,  Laure  ; "  and  she  almost  fell  upon 
her  knees  as'  she  embraced  her,  trembling  for  very 
ecstasy. 

But  Laure  scarcely  spoke.  She  was  white  and 
cold,  and  at  last  she  gasped  forth  three  words. 

"  Where  is  Valentin  ?  " 

But  Mere  Giraud  did  not  know.  It  was  not  Val 
entin  she  cared  to  see.  Valentin  could  wait,  since 
she  had  her  Laure.  She  sat  down  beside  her  in 
one  of  the  velvet  chairs,  and  she  held  the  fair  hand 
in  her  own.  It  was  covered  with  jewels,  but  she 
did  not  notice  them  ;  her  affection  only  told  her 
that  it  was  cold  and  tremulous. 

"  You  are  not  well,  Laure  ?  "  she  said.  "  It  was 
well  that  my  dream  warned  me  to  come.  Some 
thing  is  wrong." 

12 


178     MERE    GTRAUns  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  said  Laure.  "  I  do  not  suffer 
at  all." 

She  was  so  silent  that  if  Mere  Giraud  had  not 
had  so  much  to  say  she  would  have  been  troubled  ; 
as  it  was,  however,  she  was  content  to  pour  forth 
her  affectionate  speeches  one  after  another  without 
waiting  to  be  answered. 

"  Where  is  Monsieur  Legrand  ?  "  she  ventured 
at  last. 

"  He  is,"  said  Laure,  in  a  hesitant  voice,  —  "  he 
is  in  Normandy." 

"  Shall  I  not  see  him  ? "  asked  Mere  Giraud. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  unless  your  visit  is  a  long  one. 
He  will  be  absent  for  some  months." 

She  did  not  speak  with  any  warmth.  It  was  as 
if  she  did  not  care  to  speak  of  him  at  all,  —  as  if 
the  mention  of  him  even  embarrassed  her  a  little. 

Mere  Giraud  felt  a  secret  misgiving. 

';  I  shall  not  stay  long,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  could 
not  remain  away.  I  wished  so  eagerly  to  see  you, 
and  know  that  you  were  happy.  You  are  happy, 
my  Laure  ?  " 

Laure  turned  toward  her  and  gave  her  a  long 
look  —  a  look  which  seemed  unconsciously  to  ask 
her  a  question. 

"  Happy  !  "  she  answered  slowly  and  deliberately, 
"  I  suppose  so.  Yes." 

Mere  Giraud  caressed  her  hand  again  and  again. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  must  be  so.  The  good  are 
always  happy;  and  you,  my  Laure,  have  always 


MERE   GIRAUD'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     179 

been  dutiful  and  virtuous,  and  consequently  you 
are  rewarded.  You  have  never  caused  me  a  grief, 
and  now,  thank  the  good  God,  you  are  prosper 
ous."  She  looked  at  her  almost  adoringly,  and  at 
last  touched  the  soft  thick  gray  velvet  of  her 
drapery  with  reverence.  "  Do  you  wear  such  things 
as  this  every  day  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  Laure  answered,  "every  day." 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  the  happy  mother.  "  How  Mon 
sieur  Legrand  must  adore  you  !  " 

At  length  she  found  time  to  ask  a  few  questions 
concerning  Valentin. 

"  I  know  that  he  is  well  and  as  prosperous  as 
one  could  expect  him  to  be ;  but  I  hope  "  — 
bridling  a  little  with  great  seriousness  —  "I  hope 
he  conducts  himself  in  such  a  manner  as  to  cause 
you  no  embarrassment,  though  naturally  you  do 
not  see  him  often." 

"  No,"  was  the  answer,  —  they  did  not  see  him 
often. 

"Well,  well,"  began  Mere  Giraud,  becoming 
lenient  in  her  great  happiness,  "  he  is  not  a  bad 
lad  —  Valentin.  He  means  well  "  — 

But  here  she  stopped,  —  Laure  checked  her  with 
a  swift,  impassioned  movement. 

"  He  is  what  we  cannot  understand,"  she  said  in 
a  hushed,  strained  voice.  "  He  is  a  saint.  He  has 
no  thought  for  himself.  His  whole  life  is  a  sacrifice. 
It  is  not  I  you  should  adore  —  it  is  Valentin." 

"  Valentin  !  "  echoed  Mere  Giraud. 


ISO    MERE   GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

It  quite  bewildered  her,  the  mere  thought  of 
adoring  Valentin. 

"My  child,"  she  said  when  she  recovered  her 
self,  "  it  is  your  good  heart  which  says  this." 

The  same  night  Valentin  came.  Laure  went 
out  into  the  antechamber  to  meet  him,  and  each 
stood  and  looked  at  the  other  with  pale  face  and 
anguished  eyes.  Valentin's  eyes  were  hollow  and 
sunken  as  if  with  some  great  sorrow,  and  his  large 
awkward  frame  seemed  wasted.  But  there  was  no 
reproach  mingled  with  the  indescribable  sadness 
of  his  gaze. 

"  Your  note  came  to  me,"  he  said.  "  Our 
mother  "  — 

"  She  is  in  there,"  said  Laure  in  a  low,  hurried, 
shaken  voice,  and  she  pointed  to  the  salon.  "  She 
has  come  to  embrace  me,  —  to  make  sure  that  I 
am  happy.  Ah,  my  God  ! "  and  she  covered  her 
deathly  face  with  her  hands. 

Valentin  did  not  approach  her.  He  could  only 
stand  still  and  look  on.  One  thought  filled  his 
mind. 

"We  have  no  time  to  weep,  Laure,"  he  said 
gently.  "  We  must  go  on  as  we  have  begun.  Give 
me  your  hand." 

This  was  all,  and  then  the  two  went  in  together, 
Laure's  hand  upon  her  brother's  arm. 

It  was  a  marvelous  life  Mere  Giraud  lived  during 
the  next  few  days.  Certainly  she  could  not  com 
plain  that  she  was  not  treated  with  deference  and 


MERE   GIRAUUS  LITTLE   DAUGHTER.     l8l 

affection.  She  wore  the  silk  dress  every  day ;  she 
sat  at  the  wonderful  table,  and  a  liveried  servant 
stood  behind  her  chair  ;  she  drove  here  and  there 
in  a  luxurious  carriage  ;  she  herself,  in  fact,  lived 
the  life  of  an  aristocrat  and  a  great  lady.  Better 
than  all  the  rest,  she  found  her  Laure  as  gracious 
and  dutiful  as  her  fond  heart  could  have  wished. 
She  spent  every  hour  with  her  ;  she  showed  her  all 
her  grandeurs  of  jewelry  and  toilette  ;  she  was  not 
ashamed  of  her  mother,  untutored  and  simple  as 
she  might  be. 

"  Only  she  is  very  pale  and  quiet,"  she  remarked 
to  Valentin  once  ;  "  even  paler  and  more  quiet  than 
I  should  have  expected.  But  then  we  know  that 
the  rich  and  aristocratic  are  always  somewhat  re 
served.  It  is  only  the  peasantry  and  provincials 
who  are  talkative  and  florid.  It  is  natural  that 
Laure  should  have  gained  the  manner  of  the  great 
world." 

But  her  happiness,  poor  soul,  did  not  last  long, 
and  yet  the  blow  God  sent  was  a  kindly  one. 

One  morning  as  they  went  out  to  their  carriage 
Laure  stopped  to  speak  to  a  woman  who  crouched 
upon  the  edge  of  the  pavement  with  a  child  in  her 
arms.  She  bent  down  and  touched  the  little  one 
with  her  hand,  and  Mere  Giraud,  looking  on, 
thought  of  pictures  she  had  seen  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  of  lovely  saints  healing  the  sick. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Laure. 

The  woman  looked  down  at  the  child  and 
shivered. 


1 82    MERE  GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER, 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  hoarsely.  "  Only 
we  are  ill,  and  God  has  forsaken  us.  We  have  not 
tasted  food  for  two  days." 

Laure  took  something  from  her  purse  and  laid 
it  silently  in  the  child's  small,  fevered  hand.  The 
woman  burst  into  tears. 

"  Madame,"  she  said,  "  it  is  a  twenty-franc 
piece." 

"Yes,"  said  Laure  gently.  "When  it  is  spent 
come  to  me  again,"  and  she  went  to  her  carriage. 

"My  child,"  said  Mere  Giraud,  "it  is  you  who 
are  a  saint.  The  good  God  did  wisely  in  shower 
ing  blessings  upon  you." 

A  few  days  longer  she  was  happy,  and  then  she 
awakened  from  her  sleep  one  night,  and  found 
Laure  standing  at  her  bedside  looking  down  at  her 
and  shuddering.  She  started  up  with  an  exclama 
tion  of  terror. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  she  said.    "  What  is  it  ?  " 

She  was  answered  in  a  voice  she  had  never  heard 
before,  —  Laure's,  but  hoarse  and  shaken.  Laure 
had  fallen  upon  her  knees,  and  grasped  the  bed 
clothes,  hiding  her  face  in  the  folds. 

"I  am  ill,"  she  answered  in  this  strange,  changed 
tone.  "  I  am  —  I  am  cold  and  burning  —  I  am  — 
dying." 

In  an  instant  Mere  Giraud  stood  upon  the  floor 
holding  her  already  insensible  form  in  her  arms. 
She  was  obliged  to  lay  her  upon  the  floor  while 
she  rang  the  bell  to  alarm  the  servants.  She  sent 


MERE    GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     183 

for  Valentin  and  a  doctor.  The  doctor,  arriving, 
regarded  the  beautiful  face  with  manifest  surprise 
and  alarm.  It  was  no  longer  pale,  but  darkly 
flushed,  and  the  stamp  of  terrible  pain  was  upon  it. 

"  She  has  been  exposed  to  infection,"  he  said. 
"  This  is  surely  the  case.  It  is  a  malignant  fever." 

Then  Mere  Giraud  thought  of  the  poor  mother 
and  child. 

"  O  my  God  !  she  prayed,  "  do  not  let  her  die  a 
martyr." 

But  the  next  day  there  was  not  a  servant  left  in 
the  house  ;  but  Valentin  was  there,  and  there  had 
come  a  Sister  of  Mercy.  When  she  came,  VaLentin 
met  her,  and  led  her  into  the  salon.  They  re 
mained  together  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  came 
out  and  went  to  the  sick-room,  and  there  were 
traces  of  tears  upon  the  Sister's  face.  She  was  a 
patient,  tender  creature,  who  did  her  work  well, 
and  she  listened  with  untiring  gentleness  to  Mere 
Giraud's  passionate  plaints. 

"  So  beautiful,  so  young,  so  beloved,"  cried  the 
poor  mother  ;  "  and  Monsieur  absent  in  Normandy, 
though  it  is  impossible  to  say  where !  And  if 
leath  should  come  before  his  return,  who  could 
confront  him  with  the  truth?  So  beautiful,  so 
happy,  so  adored  !  " 

And  Laure  lay  upon  the  bed,  sometimes  wildly 
delirious,  sometimes  a  dreadful  statue  of  stone,  — 
unhearing,  unseeing,  unmoving,  —  death  without 
death's  rest,  —  life  in  death's  bonds  of  iron. 


1 84 

But  while  Mere  Giraud  wept,  Valentin  had  no  tears. 
He  was  faithful,  untiring,  but  silent  even  at  the  worst. 

"  One  would  think  he  had  no  heart,"  said  Mere 
Giraud  ;  "  but  men  are  often  so,  —  ready  to  work, 
but  cold  and  dumb.  Ah  !  it  is  only  a  mother  who 
bears  the  deepest  grief." 

She  fought  passionately  enough  for  a  hope  at 
first,  but  it  was  forced  from  her  grasp  in  the  end. 
Death  had  entered  the  house  and  spoken  to  her  in 
the  changed  voice  which  had  summoned  her  from 
her  sleep. 

"Madame,"  said  the  doctor  one  evening  as  they 
stood  over  the  bed  while  the  sun  went  down,  "  I 
have  done  all  that  is  possible.  She  will  not  see 
the  sun  set  again.  She  may  not  see  it  rise." 

Mere  Giraud  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  the  bed, 
crossing  herself  and  weeping. 

"  She  will  die,"  she  said,  "  a  blessed  martyr. 
She  will  die  the  death  of  a  saint."  ^ 

That  very  night  —  only  a  few  hours  later —  there 
came  to  them  a  friend,  —  one  they  had  not  for  one 
moment  even  hoped  to  see,  —  a  gentle,  grave  old 
man,  in  a  thin,  well-worn  black  robe, — the  Cure 
of  St.  Croix. 

Him  Valentin  met  also,  and  when  the  two  saw 
each  other,  there  were  barriers  that  fell  away  in 
their  first  interchange  of  looks. 

"My  son,"  said  the  old  man,  holding  out  his 
hands,  "  tell  me  the  truth." 

Then  Valentin  fell  into  a  chair  and  hid  his  face. 


MERE    GIRAU&S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     185 

"  She  is  dying,"  he  said,  "  and  I  cannot  ask  that 
she  should  live." 

"What  was  my  life" — he  cried  passionately, 
speaking  again  —  "  what  was  my  life  to  me  that  I 
should  not  have  given  it  to  save  her,  —  to  save  her 
to  her  beauty  and  honor,  and  her  mother's  love  ! 
I  would  have  given  it  cheerfully,  —  a  thousand 
times,  —  a  thousand  times  again  and  again.  But 
it  was  not  to  be  ;  and,  in  spite  of  my  prayers,  I 
lost  her.  O  my  God ! "  with  a  sob  of  agony, 
'•  if  to-night  she  were  in  St.  Croix  and  I  could  hear 
the  neighbors  call  her  again  as  they  used,  *  Mere 
Giraud's  little  daughter  !  '  " 

The  eyes  of  the  Cure  had  tears  in  them  also. 

"  Yesterday  I  returned  to  St.  Croix  and  found 
your  mother  absent,"  he  said.  "  I  have  had  terri 
ble  fears  for  months,  and  when  I  found  her  house 
closed,  they  caused  me  to  set  out  upon  my  journey 
at  once." 

He  did  not  ask  any  questions.  He  remembered 
too  well  the  man  of  whom  Valentin  had  written  ; 
the  son  who  was  "  past  his  youth,  and  had  evi 
dently  seen  the  world  ; "  the  pale  aristocrat,  who 
had  exclaimed  " Mon  Dieu!"  at  the  sight  of 
Laure's  wondrous  beauty. 

"  When  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,"  said  Val 
entin,  "  I  vowed  myself  to  the  labor  of  sparing 
our  mother.  I  have  worked  early  and  late  to  sus 
tain  myself  in  the  part  I  played.  It  was  not  from 
Laure  the  money  came.  My  God  !  Do  you  think 


1 86     MERE    GIRAU&S  LITTLE   DAUGHTER. 

I  would  have  permitted  my  mother's  hand  to  have 
touched  a  gift  of  hers  ?  She  wrote  the  letters,  but 
the  money  I  had  earned  honestly.  Heaven  will 
justify  me  for  my  falsehood  since  I  have  suffered 
so  much." 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  Cure,  looking  at  his  bent 
form  with  gentle,  pitying  eyes,  "Heaven  will  jus 
tify  you,  my  son." 

They  watched  by  Laure  until  the  morning,  but 
she  did  not  see  them ;  she  saw  nothing ;  to-night  it 
was  the  statue  of  marble  which  lay  before  them. 
But  in  the  early  morning,  when  the  sky  was  dappled 
with  pink  and  gold,  and  the  air  was  fresh  and  cool, 
and  a  silence,  even  more  complete  than  that  of  the 
night,  seemed  to  reign,  there  came  a  change.  The 
eyes  they  had  seen  closed  for  so  many  hours  were 
opened,  and  the  soft  voice  broke  in  upon  the  per 
fect  stillness  of  the  room :  — 

"  The  lilies  in  the  garden  are  in  bloom  t®-day. 
They  were  never  so  tall,  and  white,  and  fair  before. 
I  will  gather  them  —  for  the  altar  —  to  give  to  the 
Virgin  —  at  my  confession.  Mea  culpa  —  Mea  "  — 
and  all  was  over,  and  Mere  Giraud  fell  upon  her 
knees  again,  crying,  as  she  had  cried  before,  amid 
a  passion  of  sobs  and  tears  :  — 

"  She  has  died,  my  child,  the  death  of  a  blessed 
martyr." 

It  was  rather  strange,  the  villagers  said,  that  Ma 
dame  Legrand  should  have  been  buried  in  the  little 


MERE    GIRAU&S  LITTLE   DAUGHTER.     l8/ 

graveyard  at  St.  Croix  instead  of  in  some  fine 
tomb  at  Pere  la  Chaise  ;  but  —  it  was  terribly  sad  !  — 
her  husband  was  away,  they  knew  not  where,  and 
it  was  Valentin's  wish,  and  Mere  Giraud's  heart 
yearned  so  over  her  beloved  one.  So  she  was  laid 
there,  and  a  marble  cross  was  placed  at  her  head  — 
a  tall,  beautiful  cross  —  by  Monsieur  Legrand,  of 
course.  Only  it  was  singular  that  he  never  came, 
though  perhaps  that  is  the  way  of  the  great  —  not 
to  mourn  long  or  deeply  even  for  those  who  have 
been  most  lovely,  and  whom  they  have  most  ten 
derly  loved. 


LODUSKY. 


THEY  were  rather  an  incongruous  element 
amid  the  festivities,  but  they  bore  themselves 
very  well,  notwithstanding,  and  seemed  to  be  suf 
ficiently  interested.  The  elder  of  the  two  —  a  tall, 
slender,  middle-aged  woman,  with  a  somewhat  se 
vere,  though  delicate  face  —  sat  quietly  apart,  look 
ing  on  at  the  rough  dances  and  games  with  a  keen 
relish  of  their  primitive  uncouthness ;  but  the 
younger,  a  slight,  alert  creature,  moved  here  and 
there,  her  large,  changeable  eyes  looking  larger 
through  their  glow  of  excitement. 

"Thet  gal  thar,"  drawled  a  tall  mountaineer  who 
supported  himself  against  the  chimney  and  spat 
with  placid  regularity  into  the  fire.  "They  tell  me 
thet  gal  thar  hes  writ  things  as  hes  been  in  print. 
They  say  she's  powerful  smart  —  arns  her  livin'  by 
it.  'T  least  that's  what  Jake  Harney  says,  V 
they's  a-boardin'  at  Harney's.  The  old  woman's 
some  of  her  kin,  'n'  goes  'long  with  her  when  she 
travels  'round." 


LO  DUSKY.  189 

There  was  one  fiddler  at  work  sawing  industri 
ously  at  one  tune  which  did  good  service  through 
out  the  entertainment ;  there  was  a  little  furious  and 
erratic  reel-dancing,  and  much  loud  laughter,  and 
good-natured,  even  if  somewhat  personal,  jest. 
The  room  was  one  of  two  which  formed  the  house ; 
the  walls  were  of  log ;  the  lights  the  cheery  yellow 
flare  of  great  pine-knots  flung  one  after  the  other 
upon  the  embers. 

"  I  am  glad  I  thought  of  North  Carolina,"  Re 
becca  Noble  said  to  herself.  There  is  a  strong 
hint  of  Rembrandt  in  this,  —  the  bright  yellow 
light,  the  uncouth  figures.  Ah  !  who  is  that  ?  " 

A  short  time  after,  she  made  her  way  through 
the  crowd  to  her  relative's  corner  among  the 
shadows.  She  looked  eager  and  excited,  and 
spoke  in  a  quick,  breathless  fashion. 

"  I  want  to  show  you  something,  if  you  have  not 
already  seen  it,"  she  said.  "  There  is  in  this  room, 
Aunt  Miriam,  the  most  wonderful  creature  your 
eyes  ever  rested  on  !  You  must  prepare  yourself 
to  be  startled.  Look  toward  the  door  —  at  that 
tall  girl  standing  with  her  hands  behind  her." 

She  was  attired  in  a  calico  of  flaunting  pattern, 
tnd  leaned  against  the  log  wall  in  an  indifferent  at- 
citucle,  regarding  the  company  from  under  the  heavy 
lashes  of  her  eyes,  which  had  a  look  of  stillness  in 
them  which  was  yet  not  repose.  There  was  some 
thing  even  secretive  in  her  expression,  as  if  she 
watched  them  furtively  for  reasons  of  her  own.  At 


1 90  LO  DUSKY. 

her  side  stood  a  big,  discontented-looking  young 
man,  who  confronted  aggressively  two  or  three  other 
young  men  equally  big,  if  not  equally  discontented, 
who  seemed  to  be  arguing  some  point  with  him  and 
endeavoring  to  engage  the  attention  of  his  compan 
ion.  The  girl,  however,  simply  responded  to  their 
appeals  with  an  occasional  smile,  ambiguous,  if  not 
scornful. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  hear  them ! "  exclaimed 
Miss  Noble. 

It  was  her  habit  to  utilize  any  material  she 
chanced  to  find,  and  she  had  really  made  her  sum 
mer  jaunt  to  North  Carolina  in  search  of  material, 
but  she  was  not  thinking  of  utilizing  this  girl,  as  she 
managed  to  keep  near  her  during  the  remainder  of 
the  evening.  She  had  merely  found  something  to 
be  keenly  interested  in,  her  interest  in  any  human 
novelty  being,  on  occasion,  intense.  In  this  case 
her  interest  increased  instead  of  diminished.  S.he 
found  the  girl  comporting  herself  in  her  natural 
position  as  belle,  with  a  calm  which  was  slightly 
suggestive  of  "  the  noble  savage."  Each  admirer 
seemed  to  be  treated  with  indifference  alike,  though 
there  were  some  who,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
themselves,  evidently  felt  that  they  stood  more  se 
curely  than  the  rest.  She  moved  through  game 
and  dance  with  a  slow  yet  free  grace  ;  she  spoke 
seldom,  and  in  a  low,  bell-like  monotone,  contain 
ing  no  hint  of  any  possible  emotional  develop 
ment,  and  for  the  rest,  her  shadow  of  a  disdainful 


LO  DUSKY.  IQI 

smile  seemed  to  stand  her  in  good  stead.  Clearly 
as  she  stood  out  from  among  her  companions  from 
the  first,  at  the  close  of  the  evening  she  assumed  a 
position  actually  dramatic. 

The  big  young  mountaineer,  who,  despite  his  dis 
content,  was  a  very  handsome  fellow  indeed,  had 
held  his  own  against  his  rivals  stubbornly  during 
the  evening,  but  when,  after  the  final  dance,  he  went 
in  search  of  his  charge,  he  found  that  he  was  not 
first. 

She  had  fallen  into  her  old  attitude  against  the 
wall,  her  hands  behind  her,  and  was  listening  to  the 
appeal  of  a  brawny  youth  with  a  hunting-knife  in 
his  belt. 

"  Dusk,"  he  was  saying,  "  I'm  not  such  a  chicken- 
hearted  chap  as  to  let  a  gal  go  back  on  me.  Ye 
sed  I  mout  hev  yer  comp'ny  home,  'n'  I'm  a-gwine 
to  hev  it,  Dave  Humes  or  no  Dave  Humes." 

Dusk  merely  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Are  ye  ?  "  she  said. 

Rebecca  Noble,  who  stood  within  a  few  feet  of 
them,  was  sure  that  the  lover  who  approached  was 
the  Dave  Humes  in  question,  he  advanced  with  such 
an  angry  stride,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  rival's 
shoulder,  turned  him  aside  so  cavalierly. 

"  No  he  aint,"  he  put  in  ;  "  not  an'  me  about.  I 
brought  ye,  an'  I'll  take  ye  home,  Lodusky,  or  me 
and  him  '11  settle  it." 

The  other  advanced  a  step,  looking  a  trifle  pale 
and  disheveled.  He  placed  himself  square  in  front 
of  Lodusky. 


LO  DUSKY. 

"  Dusk  Dunbar,"  he  said,  "  you're  the  one  to 
settle  it.  Which  on  us  is  a-gwine  home  with  ye  — 
me  or  him  ?  Ye  haint  promised  the  two  of  us,  hev 
ye?" 

There  was  certainly  a  suddenly  lit  spark  of  exul 
tation  in  the  girl's  coolly  dropped  eyes. 

"  Settle  it  betwixt  ye,"  she  answered  with  her  ex 
asperating  half  smile  again. 

They  had  attracted  attention  by  this  time,  and 
were  becoming  the  centre  figures  of  a  group  of 
lookers-on. 

The  first  had  evidently  lost  his  temper.  She  was 
the  one  who  should  settle  it,  he  proclaimed  loudly 
again.  She  had  promised  one  man  her  "  comp'ny  " 
and  had  come  with  another. 

There  was  so  much  fierce  anger  in  his  face  that 
Miss  Noble  drew  a  little  nearer,  and  felt  her  own 
blood  warmed. 

"  Which  on  us  is  it  to  be  ?  "  he  cried. 

There  was  a  quick,  strong  movement  on  the  part 
of  the  young  man  Dave,  and  he  was  whirled  aside 
for  a  second  time. 

"It's  to  be  me,"  he  was  answered.  "I'm  the 
man  to  settle  that  —  I  don't  leave  it  to  no  gal  to 
settle." 

In  two  seconds  the  lookers-on  fell  back  in  dis 
may,  and  there  was  a  cry  of  terror  from  the 
women.  Two  lithe,  long-limbed  figures  were  strug 
gling  fiercely  together,  and  there  was  a  flash  of 
knives  in  the  air. 


LO  DUSKY.  193 

Rebecca  Noble  sprang  forward. 

"They  will  kill  each  other,"  she  said.  "Stop 
them  !  " 

That  they  would  have  done  each  other  deadly 
injury  seemed  more  than  probable,  but  there  were 
cool  heads  and  hands  as  strong  as  their  own  in  the 
room,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  had  been  dragged 
apart  and  stood,  each  held  back  by  the  arms,  star 
ing  at  each  other  and  panting.  The  lank  peace 
maker  in  blue  jeans  who  held  Dave  Humes  shook 
him  gently  and  with  amiable  toleration  of  his 
folly. 

"  Look  'ere,  boys,"  he  said,  "  this  yere's  all 
a  pack  of  foolishness,  ye  know  —  all  a  pack  of 
foolishness.  There  aint  no  sense  in  it  —  it's  jest 
foolishness." 

Rebecca  cast  a  quick  glance  at  the  girl  Lodusky. 
She  leaned  against  the  wall  just  as  she  had  done 
before  ;  she  was  as  cool  as  ever,  though  the  spark 
which  hinted  at  exultation  still  shone  steadily  in 
her  eye. 

When  the  two  ladies  reached  the  log-cabin  at 
which  they  had  taken  up  their  abode,  they  found 
that  the  -story  of  the  event  of  the  evening  was  be 
fore  them.  Their  hostess,  whose  habit  it  was  to 
present  herself  with  erratic  talk  or  information  at 
all  hours,  met  them  with  hospitable  eagerness. 

"Waal  now,"  she  began,  "jest  to  think  o'  them 
thar  fool  boys  a-lettin'  into  one  another  in  thet 
thar  way.  I  never  hearn  tell  o'  sich  foolishness. 
13 


194  LO  DUSKY. 

Young  folks  is  so  foolish.  'N'  they  drord  knives  ? " 
This  is  in  the  tone  of  suggestive  query. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miss  Noble,  "  they  drew 
knives." 

"  They  did  !  "  benignly.  "  Lord  !  What  fools  ! 
Waal  now,  an'  Dusk  —  what  did  Dusk  do  ?  " 

"  She  stood  by  and  looked  on,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Lord  !  "  with  the  inimitable  mountain  drawl ; 
"  ye  don't  say  so  !  But  it's  jest  like  her  —  thet  is. 
She's  so  cur'us,  Dusk  is.  Thar  aint  no  gettin'  at 
her.  Ye  know  the  gals  ses  as  she's  allers  doin* 
fust  one  quare  thing  'n'  then  another  to  get  the 
boys  mad  at  each  other.  But  Lor',  p'r'aps  'taint 
so !  Dusk's  powerful  good-lookin',  and  gals  is 
jealous,  ye  know." 

"  Do  you  think,"  questioned  Miss  Noble,  "  that 
they  really  would  have  killed  each  other  ?  " 

"  Lord  !  yaas,"  placidly.  "  They  went  to  do  it. 
Both  Dan'l  and  Dave's  kinder  fiery,  'n'  they'd 
nuther  on  'em  hev  give  in  with  Dusk  a-lookin'  on  — 
they'd  hev  cut  theirselves  to  pieces  fust.  Young 
folks  is  so  foolish ;  gettin'  mad  about  a  gal !  Lord 
knows  gals  is  plenty  enough." 

"  Not  girls  like  this  one,"  said  Miss  Noble,  laugh 
ing  a  little. 

"  Waal  now,  she  is  good-lookin',  aint  she  ?  But 
she's  cur'us,  Dusk  is  —  she's  a  cur'us  creetur." 

"  Curious  !  "  echoed  Rebecca,  finding  the  term 
vague  even  while  suggestive. 

"  Yaas,"    she    said,    expansively,    "  she's    cur'us, 


LO  DUSKY.  195 

kinder  onsosherble  'n'  notionate.  Now  Dusk  is  — 
cur'us.  She's  so  still  and  sot,  'n'  Nath  Dunbar  and 
Mandy  they  think  a  heap  on  her,  'n'  they  do  the 
best  they  kin  by  her,  but  she  don't  never  seem  to 
keer  about  'em  no  way.  Fur  all  she's  so  still,  she's 
powerful  sot  on  fine  dressin'  an'  rich  folkses  ways. 
Nath  he  once  tuk  her  to  Asheville,  'n'  seems  like 
she's  kinder  never  got  over  it,  but  keeps  a-broodin' 
'bout  the  way  they  done  thar,  'n'  how  their  clothes 
looked,  'n'  all  thet.  She  knows  she's  handsum,  'n' 
she  likes  to  see  other  folks  knows  it,  though  she 
never  says  much.  I  hed  to  laugh  at  my  Hamp 
once  ;  Hamp  he  aint  no  fool,  an'  he'd  been  tuk 
with  her  a  spell  like  the  rest  o'  the  boys,  but  he  got 
chock  full  of  her,  'n'  one  day  we  was  a-talkin,'  'n' 
the  old  man  he  says,  '  Waal  now,  that  gal's  a  hard 
wad.  She's  cur'us,  'n'  thar's  no  two  ways  about  it.' 
An'  Hamp  he  gives  a  bit  of  a  laugh  kinder  mad,  'n' 

he  ses,  '  Yes,  she's  cur'us  —  cur'us  as ! '  May 

be  he  felt  kinder  roughed  up  about  her  yet  —  but  I 
hed  to  laugh." 

The  next  morning  Miss  Noble  devoted  to  letter- 
writing.  In  one  of  her  letters,  a  bright  one,  of  a 
tone  rather  warmer  than  the  rest,  she  gave  her 
correspondent  a  very  forcible  description  of  the 
entertainment  of  the  evening  before  and  its  closing 
scene. 

"  I  think  it  will  interest  him,"  she  said  half  aloud, 
as  she  wrote  upon  the  envelope  the  first  part  of  the 
address,  '  Mr.  Paul  Lennox.' 


196  LO  DUSKY. 

A  shadow  falling  across  the  sunshine  in  the  door 
way  checked  her  and  made  her  look  up. 

It  had  rather  an  arousing  effect  upon  her  to  find 
herself  confronting  the  young  woman,  Lodusky,  who 
stood  upon  the  threshold,  regarding  her  with  an  air 
entirely  composed,  slightly  mingled  with  interest. 

"  I  was  in  at  Mis'  Harney's,"  she  remarked,  as  if 
the  explanation  was  upon  the  whole  rather  super 
fluous,  "'n'  I  thought  I'd  come  in  'n'  see  ye." 

During  her  sojourn  of  three  weeks  Rebecca  had 
learned  enough  of  the  laws  of  mountain  society  to 
understand  that  the  occasion  only  demanded  of  her 
friendliness  of  demeanor  and  perfect  freedom  from 
ceremony.  She  rose  and  placed  a  chair  for  her 
guest. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said. 

Lodusky  seated  herself. 

It  was  entirely  unnecessary  to  attempt  to  set  her 
at  ease ;  her  composure  was  perfect.  The  flaunt- 
ing-patterned  calico  must  have  been  a  matter  of  full 
dress.  It  had  been  replaced  by  a  blue-and-white- 
checked  homespun  gown  —  a  coarse  cotton-  gar 
ment  short  and  scant.  Her  feet  were  bare,  and 
their  bareness  was  only  a  revelation  of  greater 
beauty,  so  perfect  was  their  arched  slenderness. 
Miss  Dunbar  crossed  them  with  unembarrassed 
freedom,  and  looked  at  the  stranger  as  if  she  found 
her  worth  steady  inspection. 

"Thet  thar's  a  purty  dress  you're  a-wearin',"  she 
vouchsafed  at  length. 


LO  DUSKY.  197 

Rebecca  glanced  down  at  her  costume.  Being  a 
sensible  young  person,  she  had  attired  herself  in 
apparel  suitable  for  mountain  rambling.  Her  dress 
was  simple  pilgrim  gray,  taut  made  and  trim ;  but 
she  never  lost  an  air  of  distinction  which  rendered 
abundant  adornments  a  secondary  matter. 

"  It  is  very  plain,"  she  answered.  "  I  believe  its 
chief  object  is  to  be  as  little  in  the  way  as  possible." 

'  'Taint  much  trimmed,"  responded  the  girl, 
"but  it  looks  kinder  nice,  'n'  it  sets  well.  Ye  come 
from  the  city,  Mis'  Harney  says." 

"  From  New  York,"  said  Rebecca.  She  felt  sure 
that  she  saw  in  the  tawny  brown  depths  of  the  girl's 
eyes  a  kind  of  secret  eagerness,  and  this  expressed 
itself  openly  in  her  reply. 

"I  don't  blame  no  one  fur  wantin'  to  live  in  a 
city,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  discontent.  "  A  body 
might  most  as  soon  be  dead  as  live  this  way." 

Rebecca  gave  her  a  keen  glance.  "Don't  you 
like  the  quiet  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What  is  it  you  don't 
like?" 

"  I  don't  like  nothin'  about  it,"  scornfully. 
"  Thar's  nothin'  here." 

Very  slowly  a  lurking,  half-hidden  smile  showed 
itself  about  her  fine  mouth. 

"  I'm  not  goin'  to  stay  here  allers,"  she  said. 

"  You  want  to  go  away  ?  "  said  Rebecca. 

She  nodded. 

"I  am  goin',"  she  answered,  "some  o'  these 
days." 


198  LO  DUSKY. 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Rebecca,  a  little  coldly,  rec 
ognizing  as  she  did  a  repellant  element  in  the  girl. 

The  reply  was  succinct  enough :  — 

"I  don't  know  whar,  'n'  I  don't  keer  whar  —  but 
I'm  goin'." 

She  turned  her  eyes  toward  the  great  wall  of  for 
est-covered  mountain,  lifting  its  height  before  the 
open  door,  and  the  blood  showed  its  deep  glow 
upon  her  cheek. 

"  Some  o'  these  days,"  she  added  ;  "  as  shore  as 
I'm  a  woman." 

When  they  talked  the  matter  over  afterward.  Miss 
Thome's  remarks  were  at  once  decided  and  severe. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  my  opinion  is,  Rebecca  ?  " 
she  said.  "  It  is  my  opinion  that  there  is  evil 
enough  in  the  creature  to  be  the  ruin  of  the  whole 
community.  She  is  bad  at  the  core." 

'"  I  would  rather  believe,"  said  Rebecca,  musing 
ly,  "  that  she  was  only  inordinately  vain."  Almost 
instantaneously  her  musing  was  broken  by  a  light 
laugh.  u  She  has  dressed  her  hair  as  I  dress  mine," 
she  said,  "  only  it  was  done  better.  I  could  not 
have  arranged  it  so  well.  She  saw  it  last  night 
and  was  quick  enough  to  take  in  the  style  at  a 
glance." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  next  week  there  occurred 
an  event  which  changed  materially  the  ordinary 
routine  of  life  in  the  cabin.  Heretofore  the  two 
sojourners  among  the  mountain  fastnesses  had 
walked  and  climbed  under  the  escort  of  a  small, 


LO  DUSKY.  199 

tow-headed  Harney.  But  one  evening  as  she  sat 
sketching  on  her  favorite  flat  seat  of  rock,  Miss 
Noble  somewhat  alarmed  this  youth  by  dropping 
her  paper  and  starting  to  her  feet. 

"  Orlander  "  Harney  sat  and  stared  at  her  with 
black  eyes  and  opened  mouth.  The  red  came  and 
went  under  her  fair  skin,  and  she  breathed  quickly. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  softly,  "how  could  I  be  mis 
taken  ! " 

That  she  was  not  mistaken  became  evident  imme 
diately.  At  the  very  moment  she  spoke,  the  ad 
vancing  horseman,  whose  appearance  had  so  roused 
her,  glanced  upward  along  the  path  and  caught 
sight  of  her  figure.  He  lifted  his  hat  in  gay  greet 
ing  and  struck  his  horse  lightly  with  his  whip.  Re 
becca  bent  down  and  picked  up  her  portfolio. 

"  You  may  go  home,"  she  said  quietly  to  the  boy. 
"I  shall  be  there  soon;  and  you  may  tell  Miss 
Thorne  that  Mr.  Lennox  has  come."  She  was  at 
the  base  of  the  rock  when  the  stranger  drew  rein. 
"  How  is  this  ? "  she  asked  with  bright  uplifted 
eyes.  "  We  did  not  think  "  — 

It  occurred  to  Lennox  that  he  had  never  reco^-- 

& 

nized  her  peculiar  charm  so  fully  as  he  did  at  this 
moment.  Rebecca  Noble,  though  not  a  beauty, 
possessed  a  subtle  grace  of  look  and  air  which  was 
not  easily  resisted,  —  and  just  now,  as  she  held  out 
her  hand,  the  clear  sweetness  of  her  face  shadowed 
by  her  piquantly  plain  hat  of  rough  straw,  he  felt 
the  influence  of  this  element  more  strongly  than 
ever  before. 


200  LO  DUSKY. 

"  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not  come," 
he  said,  "since  you  did  not  forbid  me." 

At  sunset  they  returned  to  the  cabin.  Lennox 
led  his  rather  sorry-looking  animal  by  the  bridle, 
and  trusting  to  its  meekness  of  aspect,  devoted  his 
attention  wholly  to  his  companion. 

"Thet's  Nath  Dunbar's  critter/'  commented 
"  Mis'  "  Harney,  standing  at  the  door.  "  They've 
powerful  poor  'commodations  fur  boardin',  but  I 
reckon  Nath  must  'a'  tuk  him  in." 

"Then,"  said  Rebecca,  learning  that  this  was  the 
case,  "  then  you  have  seen  Lodusky." 

But  he  had  not  seen  Lodusky,  it  seemed.  She 
had  not  been  at  home  when  he  arrived,  and  he  had 
only  remained  in  the  house  long  enough  to  make 
necessary  arrangements  before  leaving  it  to  go  in 
search  of  his  friends. 

The  bare,  rough-walled  room  was  very  cheery 
that  night.  Lennox  brought  with  him  the  gossip  of 
the  great  world,  to  which  he  gave  an  air  of  fresh 
ness  and  spice  that  rendered  it  very  acceptable  to 
the  temporary  hermits.  Outside,  the  moon  shone 
with  a  light  as  clear  as  day,  though  softer,  and  the 
tender  night  breezes  stirred  the  pine-tops  and 
nestled  among  the  laurels ;  inside,  by  the  beautiful 
barbarous  light  of  the  flaring  pine-knots  on  the 
hearth,  two  talkers,  at  least,  found  the  hours  fly 
swiftly. 

When  these  two  bade  each  other  good-night  it 
was  only  natural  that  they  should  reach  the  point 


LO  DUSKY.  201 

toward  which  they  had  been  veering  for  twelve 
months. 

Miss  Thorne  remained  in  the  room,  drawing 
nearer  the  fire  with  an  amiable  little  shiver,  well 
excused  by  the  mountain  coolness,  but  Rebecca 
was  beguiled  into  stepping  out  into  the  moonlight. 
The  brightness  of  the  moon  and  the  blackness  of 
the  shadows  cast  by  trees  and  rocks  and  under 
growth,  seemed  somehow  to  heighten  the  effect  of 
the  intense  and  utter  stillness  reigning  around 
them,  —  even  the  occasional  distant  cry  of  some 
wandering  wild  creature  marked,  rather  than  broke 
in  upon,  the  silence.  Rebecca's  glance  about  her 
was  half  nervous. 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said,  "  and  it  moves 
one  strongly ;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not,  in 
some  of  one's  moods,  just  a  little  oppressive." 

It  is  possible  Lennox  did  not  hear  her.  He  was 
looking  down  at  her  with  eager  eyes.  Suddenly 
he  had  caught  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"  You  know  why  I  am  here,  Rebecca,"  he  said. 
"  Surely,  all  my  hoping  is  not  vain  ? " 

She  looked  pale  and  a  little  startled ;  but  she 
lifted  her  face  and  did  not  draw  herself  away. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  he  asked  again.  "  Have  I  come  on  a 
hopeless  errand  ? " 

"  No,"  she  answered.     "  You  have  not." 

His  words  came  freely  enough  then  and  with  fire. 
When  Rebecca  reentered  the  cabin  her  large  eyes 
shone  in  her  small,  sweet  face,  and  her  lips  wore  a 
charming  curve. 


202  LO  DUSKY. 

Miss  Thorne  turned  in  her  chair  to  look  at  her 
and  was  betrayed  into  a  smile. 

"  Mr.  Lennox  has  gone,  of  course,"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

Then,  after  a  brief  silence,  in  which  Rebecca 
pushed  the  pine-knots  with  her  foot,  the  elder  lady 
spoke  again. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  may  as  well  tell  me  about 
it,  Beck,  my  child  ?  "  she  said. 

Beck  looked  down  and  shook  her  head  with  very 
charming  gravity. 

"  Why  should  I  ?  "  she  asked.  "  When  —  when 
you  know/' 

Lennox  rode  his  mildly  disposed  but  violently 
gaited  steed  homeward  in  that  reposeful  state  of 
bliss  known  only  to  accepted  lovers.  He  had 
plucked  his  flower  at  last ;  he  was  no  longer  one  of 
the  many;  he  was  ecstatically  content.  Uncer 
tainty  had  no  charm  for  him,  and  he  was  by  no 
means  the  first  discoverer  of  the  subtle  fineness  her 
admirers  found  so  difficult  to  describe  in  Miss  No 
ble.  Granted  that  she  was  not  a  beauty,  judged 
rigidly,  still  he  had  found  in  her  soft,  clear  eye,  in 
her  color,  in  her  charming  voice,  even  in  her  little 
gestures,  something  which  reached  him  as  an  artist 
and  touched  him  as  a  man. 

"  One  cannot  exactly  account  for  other  women's 
paling  before  her,"  he  said  to  himself;  "but  they 
do  —  and  lose  significance."  And  then  he  laughed 
tenderly.  At  this  moment,  it  was  true,  every  other 
thing  on  earth  paled  and  lost  significance. 


LO  DUSKY.  203 

That  the  family  of  his  host  had  retired  made 
itself  evident  to  him  when  he  dismounted  at  the 
house.  To  the  silence  of  the  night  was  added  the 
silence  of  slumber.  No  one  was  to  be  seen ;  a 
small  cow,  rendered  lean  by  active  climbing  in 
search  of  sustenance,  breathed  peacefully  near  the 
tumble-down  fence ;  the  ubiquitous,  long-legged, 
yellow  dog,  rendered  trustful  by  long  seclusion, 
aroused  himself  from  his  nap  to  greet  the  arrival 
with  a  series  of  heavy  raps  upon  the  rickety  porch- 
floor  with  a  solid  but  languid  tail.  Lennox  stepped 
over  him  in  reaching  for  the  gourd  hanging  upon 
the  post,  and  he  did  not  consider  it  incumbent  upon 
himself  to  rise. 

In  a  little  hollow  at  the  road-side  was  the  spring 
from  which  the  household  supplies  of  water  were 
obtained.  Finding  none  in  the  wooden  bucket, 
Lennox  took  the  gourd  with  the  intention  of  going 
down  to  the  hollow  to  quench  his  thirst. 

"  We've  powerful  good  water,"  his  host  had  said 
in  the  afternoon,  "  'n'  it's  nigh  the  house,  too.  I 
built  the  house  yer  a-purpose,  —  on  'count  of  its  be- 
in'  nigh." 

He  was  unconsciously  dwelling  upon  this  state 
ment  as  he  walked,  and  trying  to  recall  correctly 
the  mountain  drawl  and  twang. 

"  She,"  he  said  (there  was  only  one  "  she  "  for 
him  to-night)  —  "  she  will  be  sure  to  catch  it  and 
reproduce  it  in  all  its  shades  to  the  life." 

He  was  only  a  few  feet  from  the  spring  itself  and 


204  LO  DUSKY. 

he  stopped  with  a  sharp  exclamation  of  the  most 
uncontrollable  amazement,  —  stopped  and  stared 
straight  before  him.  It  was  a  pretty,  dell-like 
place,  darkly  shadowed  on  one  side  but  bathed  in 
the  flooding  moonlight  on  the  other,  and  it  was 
something  he  saw  in  this  flood  of  moonlight  which 
almost  caused  him  to  doubt  for  the  moment  the 
evidence  of  his  senses. 

How  it  was  possible  for  him  to  believe  that  there 
really  could  stand  in  such  a  spot  a  girl  attired  in 
black  velvet  of  stagy  cut  and  trimmings,  he  could 
not  comprehend;  but  a  few  feet  from  him  there 
certainly  stood  such  a  girl,  who  bent  her  lithe,  round 
shape  over  the  spring,  gazing  into  its  depths  with 
all  the  eagerness  of  an  insatiable  vanity. 

"  I  can't  see  nothin',"  he  heard  her  say  impa 
tiently.  "  I  can't  see  nothin'  nohow." 

Despite  the  beauty,  his  first  glance  could  not 
help  showing  him  she  was  a  figure  so  incongruous 
and  inconsistent  as  to  be  almost  bizarre.  When 
she  stood  upright  revealing  fully  her  tall  figure  in 
its  shabby  finery,  he  felt  something  like  resentment. 
He  made  a  restive  movement  which  she  heard. 
The  bit  of  broken  looking-glass  she  held  in  her 
hand  fell  into  the  water,  she  uttered  a  shamefaced, 
angry  cry. 

"  What  d'ye  want  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What 
are  ye  a-doin'  ?  I  didn't  know  as  no  one  was  a- 
lookin'.  I"- 

Her  head  was  flung   backward,  her  full  throat 


LODUSKY.  205 

looked  like  a  pillar  of  marble  against  the  black 
edge  of  her  dress,  her  air  was  fierce.  He  would 
not  have  been  an  artist  if  he  had  not  been  power 
fully  struck  with  a  sense  of  her  picturesqueness. 

But  he  did  not  smile  at  all  as  he  answered  :  — 

"  I  board  at  the  house  there.  I  returned  home 
late  and  was  thirsty.  I  came  here  for  water  to 
drink." 

Her  temper  died  down  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
flamed,  and  she  seemed  given  up  to  a  miserable, 
shamed  trepidation. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "don't  ye  tell 'em —  don't— I 
—  I'm  Dusk  Dunbar." 

Then,  as  was  very  natural,  he  became  curious 
and  possibly  did  smile  —  a  very  little. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  fantastic  are 
you  doing  ? " 

She  made  an  effort  at  being  defiant  and  suc 
ceeded  pretty  well. 

"I  wasn't  doin'  no  harm,"  she  said.  "  I  was  — 
dressin'  up  a  bit.  It  aint  nobody's  business." 

"  That's  true,"  he  answered  coolly.  "  At  all 
events  it  is  not  mine  —  though  it  is  rather  late  for 
a  lady  to  be  alone  at  such  a  place.  However,  if 
you  have  no  objection,  I  will  get  what  I  came  for 
and  go  back." 

She  said  nothing  when  he  stepped  down  and 
filled  the  gourd,  but  she  regarded  him  with  a  sort 
of  irritable  watchfulness  as  he  drank. 

"  Are  ye  —  are  ye  a-goin'  to  tell  ?  "  she  faltered, 
when  he  had  finished. 


206  LO  DUSKY. 

"No,"  he  answered  as  coolly  as  before.  "Why 
should  I  ? " 

Then  he  gave  her  a  long  look  from  head  to  foot. 
The  dress  was  a  poor  enough  velveteen  and  had  a 
cast-off  air,  but  it  clung  to  her  figure  finely,  and  its 
sleeves  were  picturesque  with  puffs  at  the  shoulder 
and  slashings  of  white,  —  indeed  the  moonlight 
made  her  all  black  and  white ;  her  eyes,  which 
were  tawny  brown  by  day,  were  black  as  velvet  now 
under  the  straight  lines  of  her  brows,  and  her  face 
was  pure  dead  fairness  itself. 

When,  his  look  ended,  his  eyes  met  hers,  she 
drew  back  with  an  impatient  movement. 

"  Ye  look  as  if  —  as  if  ye  thought  I  didn't  get  it 
honest,"  she  exclaimed  petulantly,  "but  I  did." 

That  drew  his  glance  toward  her  dress  again,  for 
of  course  she  referred  to  that,  and  he  could  not 
help  asking  her  a  point-blank  question. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  he  said. 

There  was  a  slow  flippancy  about  the  manner  of 
her  reply  which  annoyed  him  by  its  variance  with 
her  beauty  —  but  the  beauty  !  How  the  moonlight 
and  the  black  and  white  brought  it  out  as  she 
leaned  against  the  rock,  looking  at  him  from  under 
her  lashes ! 

"  Are  ye  goin'  to  tell  the  folks  up  at  the  house  ?  " 
she  demanded.  "  They  don't  know  nothin',  and  I 
don't  want  'em  to  know." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulder  negatively. 

She  laughed  with  a  hint  of  cool  slyness  and  tri 
umph. 


LODUSKY.  207 

"  I  got  it  at  Asheville,"  she  said.  "  I  went  with 
father  when  they  was  a  show  tliar,  'n'  the  women 
stayed  at  the  same  tavern  we  was  at,  'n'  one  of  'em 
tuk  up  with  me  'n'  I  done  somethin'  for  her  — 
carried  a  letter  or  two,"  breaking  into  the  sly,  tri 
umphant  laugh  again,  "'n'  she  giv' me  the  dress  fur 
pay.  What  d'ye  think  of  it  ?  Is  it  becomin'  ?  " 

The  suddenness  of  the  change  of  manner  with 
which  she  said  these  last  words  was  indescribable. 
She  stood  upright,  her  head  up,  her  hands  fallen  at 
her  sides,  her  eyes  cool  and  straight  —  her  whole 
presence  confronting  him  with  the  power  of  which 
she  was  conscious. 

"Is  it?"  she  repeated. 

He  was  a  gentleman  from  instinct  and  from 
training,  having  ordinarily  quite  a  lofty  repugnance 
for  all  profanity  and  brusqueness,  and  yet  some 
how, —  account  for  it  as  you  will,  —  he  had  the 
next  instant  answered  her  with  positive  brutality. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "  Damnably  !  " 

When  the  words  were  spoken  and  he  heard  their 
sound  fall  upon  the  soft  night  air,  he  was  as  keenly 
disgusted  as  he  would  have  been  if  he  had  heard 
them  uttered  by  another  man.  It  was  not  until 
afterward  when  he  had  had  leisure  to  think  the 
matter  over  that  he  comprehended  vaguely  the 
force  which  had  moved  him. 

But  his  companion  received  them  without  dis 
comfiture.  Indeed,  it  really  occurred  to  him  at 
the  moment  that  there  was  a  possibility  that  she 


208  LO  DUSKY. 

would  have  been  less  pleased  with  an  expression 
more  choice. 

"  I  come  down  here  to-night,"  she  said,  "because 
I  never  git  no  chance  to  do  nothin'  up  at  the  house. 
I'm  not  a-goin'  to  let  them  know.  Never  mind  why, 
but  ye  mustn't  tell  'em." 

He  felt  haughtily  anxious  to  get  back  to  his 
proper  position. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  said  again.  "It  is  no 
concern  of  mine." 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  noticed  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  striven  to  dress  her  hair  in  the  style 
of  her  model,  Rebecca  Noble,  and  this  irritated 
him  unendurably.  He  waved  his  hand  toward  it 
with  a  gesture  of  distaste. 

"  Don't  do  that  again,"  he  said.  "  That  is  not 
becoming  at  least "  —  though  he  was  angrily  con 
scious  that  it  was. 

She  bent  over  the  spring  with  a  hint  of  alarm  in 
her  expression. 

"  Aint  it  ?  "  she  said,  and  the  eager  rapidity  with 
which  she  lifted  her  hands  and  began  to  alter  it 
almost  drew  a  smile  from  him  despite  his  mood. 

"  I  done  it  like  hern,"  she  began,  and  stopped 
suddenly  to  look  up  at  him.  "  You  know  her," 
she  added ;  "  they're  at  Harney's.  Father  said 
ye'd  went  to  see  her  jest  as  soon  as  ye  got  here." 

"  I  know  her,"  was  his  short  reply. 

He  picked  up  the  drinking-gourd  and  turned 
away. 


LO  DUSKY.  209 

"Good-night,"  he  said. 

"  Good-night" 

At  the  top  of  the  rocky  incline  he  looked  back 
at  her. 

She  was  kneeling  upon  the  brink  of  the  spring, 
her  sleeve  pushed  up  to  her  shoulder,  her  hand 
and  arm  in  the  water,  dipping  for  the  fragment  of 
looking-glass. 

It  was  really  not  wholly  inconsistent  that  he 
should  not  directly  describe  the  interview  in  his 
next  meeting  with  his  betrothed.  Indeed,  Rebecca 
was  rather  struck  by  the  coolness  with  which  he 
treated  the  subject  when  he  explained  that  he  had 
seen  the  girl  and  found  her  beauty  all  it  had  been 
painted. 

"Is  it  possible,"  she  asked,  "that  she  did  not 
quite  please  you  ?  " 

"  Are  you  sure,"  he  returned,  "  that  she  quite 
pleases  you  ?  " 

Rebecca  gave  a  moment  to  reflection. 

"  But  her  beauty  "  —  she  began,  when  it  was 
over. 

"  Oh  ! "  he  interposed,  "  as  a  matter  of  color  and 
curve  and  proportion  she  is  perfect ;  one  must 
admit  that,  however  reluctantly." 

Rebecca  laughed, 

"  Why  '  reluctantly  ? ' "  she  said. 

It  was  his  turn  to  give  a  moment  to  reflection. 
14 


210  LO DUSKY. 

His  face  shadowed,  and  he  looked  a  little  dis 
turbed. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied  at  length ;  "  I  give  it 
up." 

He  had  expected  to  see  a  great  deal  of  the  girl, 
but  somehow  he  saw  her  even  oftener  than  he  had 
anticipated.  During  the  time  he  spent  in  the 
house,  chance  seemed  to  throw  her  continually  in 
his  path  or  under  his  eye.  From  his  window  he 
saw  her  carrying  water  from  the  spring,  driving  the 
small  agile  cow  to  and  from  the  mountain  pastur 
age,  or  idling  in  the  shade.  Upon  the  whole  it 
was  oftener  this  last  than  any  other  occupation. 
With  her  neglected  knitting  in  her  hands  she  would 
sit  for  hours  under  a  certain  low-spreading  cedar 
not  far  from  the  door,  barefooted,  coarsely  clad, 
beautiful,  —  every  tinge  of  the  sun,  every  indiffer 
ent  leisurely  movement,  a  new  suggestion  of  a  new 
grace. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  resist  the  temp 
tation  to  watch  her ;  and  this  Lennox  did  at  first 
almost  unconsciously.  Then  he  did  more.  One 
beautiful  still  morning  she  stood  under  the  cedar, 
her  hand  thrown  lightly  above  her  head  to  catch  at 
a  bough,  and  as  she  remained  motionless,  he  made 
a  sketch  of  her.  When  it  was  finished  he  was 
seized  with  the  whimsical  impulse  to  go  out  and 
show  it  to  her. 

She   took  it  with  an  uncomprehending  air,  but 


LO  DUSKY.  211 

the  moment  she  saw  what  it  was  a  flush  of  triumph 
ant  joy  lighted  up  her  face. 

"  It's  me,"  she  cried  in  a  low,  eager  voice.  "  Me  ! 
Do  I  look  like  that  thar  ?  Do  I  ?  " 

"  You  look  as  that  would  look  if  it  had  color, 
and  was  more  complete." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  sharply. 

"  D'ye  mean  if  it  was  han'somer  ?  " 

He  was  tempted  into  adding  to  her  excitement 
with  a  compliment. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  very  much  handsomer  than  I 
could  ever  hope  to  make  it." 

A  slow,  deep  red  rose  to  her  face. 

"  Give  it  to  me  !  "  she  demanded. 

"  If  you  will  stand  in  the  same  position  until  I 
have  drawn  another  —  certainly,"  he  returned. 

He  was  fully  convinced  that  when  she  repeated 
the  attitude  there  would  be  added  to  it  a  look  of 
consciousness. 

When  she  settled  into  position  and  caught  at  the 
bough  again,  he  watched  in  some  distaste  for  the 
growth  of  the  nervously  complaisant  air,  but  it  did 
not  appear.  She  was  unconsciousness  itself. 

It  is  possible  that  Rebecca  Noble  had  never 
been  so  happy  during  her  whole  life  as  she  was 
during  this  one  summer.  Her  enjoyment  of  every 
wild  beauty  and  novelty  was  immeasurably  keen. 
Just  at  this  time  to  be  shut  out,  and  to  be  as  it  were 
high  above  the  world,  added  zest  to  her  pleasure. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  once  to  her  lover,  "  happiness  is 
better  here  —  one  can  taste  it  slowly." 


212  LO  DUSKY. 

Fatigue  seemed  impossible  to  her.  With  Len 
nox  as  her  companion  she  performed  miracles  in 
the  way  of  walking  and  climbing,  and  explored  the 
mountain  fastnesses  for  miles  around.  Her  step 
grew  firm  and  elastic,  her  color  richer,  her  laugh 
had  a  buoyant  ring.  She  had  never  been  so  nearly 
a  beautiful  woman  as  she  was  sometimes  when  she 
came  back  to  the  cabin  after  a  ramble,  bright  and 
sun-flushed,  her  hands  full  of  laurel  and  vines. 

"  Your  gown  of  '  hodden-gray  '  is  wonderfully  be 
coming,  Beck,"  Lennox  said  again  and  again  with 
a  secret  exulting  pride  in  her. 

Their  plans  for  the  future  took  tone  from  their 
blissful,  unconventional  life.  They  could  not  settle 
down  until  they  had  seen  the  world.  They  would 
go  here  and  there,  and  perhaps,  if  they  found  it 
pleasanter  so,  not  settle  down  at  all.  There  were 
certain  clay-white,  closely  built  villages,  whose 
tumble-down  houses  jostled  each  other  upon  divers 
precipitous  cliffs  on  the  wayside  between  Florence 
and  Rome,  toward  which  Lennox's  compass  seemed 
always  to  point.  He  rather  argued  that  the  fact  of 
their  not  being  dilated  upon  in  the  guide-books 
rendered  them  additionally  interesting.  Rebecca 
had  her  fancies  too,  and  together  they  managed  to 
talk  a  good  deal  of  tender,  romantic  nonsense, 
which  was  purely  their  own  business,  and  gave  the 
summer  days  a  delicate  yet  distinct  flavor. 

The  evening  after  the  sketch  was  made  they 
spent  upon  the  mountain  side  together.  When 


LODUSKY.  213 

they  stopped  to  rest,  Lennox  flung  himself  upon 
the  ground  at  Rebecca's  feet,  and  lay  looking  up 
at  the  far  away  blue  of  the  sky  in  which  a  slow-fly 
ing  bird  circled  lazily.  Rebecca,  with  a  cluster  of 
pink  and  white  laurel  in  her  hand,  proceeded  with 
a  metaphysical  and  poetical  harangue  she  had  pre 
viously  begun. 

"To  my  eyes,"  she  said,  "it  has  a  pathetic  air 
of  loneliness  —  pathetic  and  yet  not  exactly  sorrow 
ful.  It  knows  nothing  but  its  own  pure,  brave, 
silent  life.  It  is  only  pathetic  to  a  worldling  — 
worldlings  like  us.  How  fallen  we  must  be  to  find 
a  life  desolate  because  it  has  only  nature  for  a 
companion !  " 

She  stopped  with  an  idle  laugh,  waiting  for  an 
ironical  reply  from  the  "worldling"  at  her  feet; 
but  he  remained  silent,  still  looking  upward  at  the 
clear,  deep  blue. 

As  she  glanced  toward  him  she  saw  something 
lying  upon  the  grass  between  them,  and  bent  to 
pick  it  up.  It  was  the  sketch  which  he  had  for 
gotten  and  which  had  slipped  from  the  portfolio. 

"You  have  dropped  something,"  she  said,  and 
seeing  what  it  was,  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
pleasure. 

He  came  back  to  earth  with  a  start,  and,  recog 
nizing  the  sketch,  looked  more  than  half  irritated. 

"  Oh,  it  is  that,  is  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  is  perfect !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  a  pict 
ure  it  will  make  !  " 


214  LO  DUSKY. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  a  picture,"  he  answered.  "  It 
was  not  intended  to  be  anything  more  than  a 
sketch." 

"  But  why  not  ? "  she  asked.  "  It  is  too  good 
to  lose.  You  never  had  such  a  model  in  your  life 
before." 

"  No,"  he  answered  grudgingly. 

The  hand  with  which  Rebecca  held  the  sketch 
dropped.  She  turned  her  attention  to  her  lover, 
and  a  speculative  interest  grew  in  her  face. 

"  That  girl  "  —  she  said  slowly,  after  a  mental 
summing  up  occupying  a  few  seconds  —  "  that  girl 
irritates  you  —  irritates  you." 

He  laughed  faintly. 

"  I  believe  she  does,"  he  replied ;  "  yes, '  irritates  ' 
is  the  word  to  use." 

And  yet  if  this  were  true,  his  first  act  upon  re 
turning  home  was  a  singular  one. 

He  was  rather  late,  but  the  girl  Lodusky  was 
sitting  in  the  moonlight  at  the  door.  He  stopped 
and  spoke  to  her. 

"  If  I  should  wish  to  paint  you,"  he  said  rather 
coldly,  "would  you  do  me  the  favor  of  sitting  to 
me? " 

She  did  not  answer  him  at  once,  but  seemed  to 
weigh  his  words  as  she  looked  out  across  the  moon 
light. 

"  Ye  mean,  will  I  let  ye  put  me  in  a  picter  ? " 
she  said  at  last. 

He  nodded. 


LO  DUSKY.  21 5 

"  Yes,"  she  answered, 

"  I  reckon  he  told  ye  he  was  a-paintin'  Dusk's 
picter,"  "Mis'"  Harney  said  to  her  boarders  a 
week  later. 

"Mr.  Lennox?"  returned  Rebecca;  "yes,  he 
told  us." 

"  I  thort  so,"  nodding  benignly.  "  Waal  now, 
Dusk'll  make  a  powerful  nice  picter  if  she  don't  git 
contrairy.  The  trouble  with  Dusk  is  her  a-gittin' 
contrairy.  She's  as  like  old  Hance  Dunbar  as  she 
kin  be.  I  mean  in  some  ways.  Lord  knows, 
'twouldn't  do  to  say  she  was  like  him  in  every- 
thin'." 

Naturally,  Miss  Noble  made  some  inquiries  into 
the  nature  of  old  Hance  Dunbar's  "  contrairiness." 
Secretly,  she  had  a  desire  to  account  for  Lodusky 
according  to  established  theory. 

"  I  wonder  ye  haint  heern  of  him,"  said  "  Mis'  " 
Harney.  "  He  was  just  awful  —  old  Hance  !  He 
was  Nath's  daddy,  an'  Lord  !  the  wickedest  feller ! 
Folks  was  afeared  of  him.  No  one  darsn't  to  go 
a-nigh  him  when  he'd  git  mad  —  a-rippin'  'n'  a- 
rearin'  'n'  a-chargin'.  'N'  he  never  got  no  religion, 
mind  ye ;  he  died  jest  that  a-way.  He  was  allers  a 
hankerin'  arter  seein'  the  world,  'n'  he  went  off  an» 
stayed  off  a  right  smart  while,  —  nine  or  ten  year, 
—  'n'  lived  in  all  sorts  o'  ways  in  them  big  cities. 
When  he  come  back  he  was  a  sight  to  see,  sick  'n' 
pore  'n'  holler-eyed,  but  as  wicked  as  ever.  Dusk 
was  a  little  thing  'n'  he  was  a  old  man,  but  he'd 


2l6  LO  DUSKY. 

laugh  'n'  tell  her  to  take  care  of  her  face  'n'  be  a 
smart  gal.  He  was  drefful  sick  at  last  'n'  suffered 
a  heap,  'n'  one  day  he  got  up  offen  his  bed  'n'  tuk 
down  Nath's  gun  'n'  shot  hisself  as  cool  as  could 
be.  He  hadn't  no  patience,  'n'  he  said,  '  When  a 
G —  derned  man  had  lived  through  what  he  had  'n' 
then  wouldn't  die,  it  was  time  to  kill  him.'  Seems 
like  it  sorter  'counts  fur  Dusk  ;  she  don't  git  her 
cur'usness  from  her  own  folks ;  Nath  an'  Mandy's 
mighty  clever,  both  on  'em." 

"Perhaps  it  does  'count  for  Dusk,"  Rebecca 
said,  after  telling  the  tale  to  Lennox.  "  It  must  be 
a  fearful  thing  to  have  such  blood  in  one's  veins 
and  feel  it  on  fire.  Let  us,"  she  continued  with  a 
smile,  "  be  as  charitable  as  possible." 

When  the  picture  was  fairly  under  way,  Lennox's 
visits  to  the  Harneys'  cabin  were  somewhat  less 
frequent.  The  mood  in  which  she  found  he  had 
gradually  begun  to  regard  his  work  aroused  in  Re 
becca  a  faint  wonder.  He  seemed  hardly  to  like  it, 
and  yet  to  be  fascinated  by  it.  He  was  averse  to 
speaking  freely  of  it,  and  still  he  thought  of  it  con 
tinually.  Frequently  when  they  were  together,  he 
wore  an  absent,  perturbed  air. 

"  You  do  not  look  content,"  she  said  to  him 
once. 

He  passed  his  hand  quickly  across  his  forehead 
and  smiled,  plainly  with  an  effort,  but  he  made  no 
reply. 

The  picture  progressed  rather  slowly  upon    the 


LO  DUSKY.  217 

whole.  Rebecca  had  thought  the  subject  a  little 
fantastic  at  first,  and  yet  had  been  attracted  by  it. 
A  girl  in  a  peculiar  dress  of  black  and  white  bent 
over  a  spring  with  an  impatient  air,  trying  in  vain  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  her  beauty  in  the  reflection  of 
the  moonlight. 

"  It 's  our  spring,  shore,"  commented  "  Mis'  " 
Dunbar.  "  'N'  its  Dusk  —  but  Lord  !  how  fine 
she's  fixed.  Ye're  as  fine  as  ye  want  to  be  in  the 
picter,  Dusk,  if  ye  wa'n't  never  fine  afore.  Don't 
ye  wish  ye  had  sich  dressin'  as  thet  thar  now  ? " 

The  sittings  were  at  the  outset  peculiarly  silent. 
There  was  no  untimely  motion  or  change  of  expres 
sion,  and  yet  no  trying  passiveness.  The  girl  gave 
any  position  a  look  of  unconsciousness  quite  won 
derful.  Privately,  Lennox  was  convinced  that  she 
was  an  actress  from  habit  —  that  her  ease  was  the 
result  of  life-long  practice.  Sometimes  he  found 
his  own  consciousness  of  her  steady  gaze  almost 
unbearable.  He  always  turned  to  meet  her  deep 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  an  expression  he  could 
not  fathom.  Frequently  he  thought  it  an  expres 
sion  of  dislike  —  of  secret  resentment  —  of  subtle 
defiance.  There  came  at  last  a  time  when  he  knew 
that  he  turned  toward  her  again  and  again  because 
he  felt  that  he  must  —  because  he  had  a  feverish 
wish  to  see  if  the  look  had  changed. 

Once  when  he  did  this  he  saw  that  it  had 
changed.  She  had  moved  a  little,  her  eyes  were 
dilated  with  a  fire  which  startled  him  beyond  self- 


21 8  LO  DUSKY. 

control,  her  color  came  and  went,  she  breathed 
fast.  The  next  instant  she  sprang  from  her  chair. 

"  I  wont  stand  it  no  longer,"  she  cried  panting; 
"  no  longer  —  I  wont ! " 

Her  ire  was  magnificent.  She  flung  her  head 
back,  and  struck  her  side  with  her  clinched  hand. 

"  No  longer  !  "  she  said  •  "  not  a  minute  !  " 

Lennox  advanced  one  step  and  stood,  palette  in 
hand,  gazing  at  her. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  he  asked.     "  What  ?  " 

"  What  ? "  she  echoed  with  contemptuous  scorn. 
"  Nothin' !  But  d  'ye  think  I  don't  know  ye?" 

"  Know  me ! "  he  repeated  after  her  mechanic 
ally,  finding  it  impossible  to  remove  his  glance 
from  her. 

"  What  d'ye  take  me  me  fur  ? "  she  demanded. 
"  A  fool  ?  Yes,  I  was  a  fool  —  a  fool  to  come 
here,  'n'  set  'n'  let  ye  —  let  ye  despise  me ! "  in  a 
final  outburst. 

Still  he  could  only  echo  her  again,  and  say  "  De 
spise  you ! " 

Her  voice  lowered  itself  into  an  actual  fierceness 
of  tone. 

"Ye've  done  it  from  first  to  last/'  she  said. 
"  Would  ye  look  at  her  like  ye  look  at  me  ?  Would 
ye  turn  half  way  'n'  look  at  her,  'n'  then  turn  back 
as  if  —  as  if — .  Aint  there  "  —  her  eyes  ablaze  — 
"  aint  there  no  life  to  me  ?  " 

"  Stop  !  "  he  began  hoarsely. 

"  I'm  beneath  her,  am  I  ?  "  she  persisted.     "  ME 


LO DUSKY.  219 

beneath  another  woman  —  Dusk  Dunbar  !  It's  the 
first  time ! " 

She  walked  toward  the  door  as  if  to  leave  him, 
but  suddenly  she  stopped.  A  passionate  tremor 
shook  her;  he  saw  her  throat  swell.  She  threw 
her  arm  up  against  the  logs  of  the  wall  and  dropped 
her  face  upon  it  sobbing  tumultuously. 

There  was  a  pause  of  perhaps  three  seconds. 
Then  Lennox  moved  slowly  toward  her.  Almost 
unconsciously  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  heaving 
shoulder  and  so  stood  trembling  a  little. 

When  Rebecca  paid  her  next  visit  to  the  picture 
it  struck  her  that  it  appeared  at  a  standstill.  As 
she  looked  at  it  her  lover  saw  a  vague  trouble 
growing  slowly  in  her  eyes. 

"  What !  "  he  remarked.  "  It  does  not  please 
you  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  —  "I  feel  as  if  it  had 
not  pleased  you." 

He  fell  back  a  few  paces  and  stood  scanning  it 
with  an  impression  at  once  hard  and  curious. 

"  Please  me  ! "  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice  almost 
strident.  "  It  should.  She  has  beauty  enough." 

On  her  return  home  that  day  Rebecca  drew  forth 
from  the  recesses  of  her  trunk  her  neglected  writ 
ing  folio  and  a  store  of  paper. 

Miss  Thome,  entering  the  room,  found  her  kneel 
ing  over  her  trunk,  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  she  asked. 


22O  LODUSKY. 

Rebecca  smiled  faintly. 

"  What  I  ought  to  have  begun  before,"  she  said. 
"  I  am  behindhand  with  my  work." 

She  laid  the  folio  and  her  inkstand  upon  the 
table,  and  made  certain  methodical  arrangements 
for  her  labor.  She  worked  diligently  all  day,  and 
looked  slightly  pale  and  wearied  when  she  rose 
from  her  seat  in  the  evening.  Until  eleven  o'clock 
she  sat  at  the  open  door,  sometimes  talking  quietly, 
sometimes  silent  and  listening  to  the  wind  among 
the  pines.  She  did  not  mention  her  lover's  name, 
and  he  did  not  come.  She  spent  many  a  day  and 
night  in  the  same  manner  after  this.  For  the  pres 
ent  the  long,  idle  rambles  and  unconventional 
moon-lit  talks  were  over.  It  was  tacitly  understood 
between  herself  and  her  aunt  that  Lennox's  labor 
occupied  him. 

"  It  seems  a  strange  time  to  begin  a  picture  — 
during  a  summer  holiday,"  said  Miss  Thorne  a 
little  sharply  upon  one  occasion. 

Rebecca  laughed  with  an  air  of  cheer. 

"  No  time  is  a  strange  time  to  an  artist,"  she 
answered.  "  Art  is  a  mistress  who  gives  no  holi 
days." 

She  was  continually  her  bright,  erect,  alert  self. 
The  woman  who  loved  her  dearly  and  had  known 
her  from  her  earliest  childhood,  found  her  sagacity 
and  knowledge  set  at  naught  as  it  were.  She  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  her  niece  admired  far  be 
yond  the  usual  lot  of  women ;  she  had  gradually 


LO  DUSKY.  221 

learned  to  feel  it  only  natural  that  she  should  in 
spire  quite  a  strong  sentiment  even  in  casual  ac 
quaintances.  She  had  felt  the  delicate  power  of 
her  fascination  herself,  but  never  at  her  best  and 
brightest  had  she  found  her  more  charming  or 
quicker  of  wit  and  fancy  than  she  was  now. 

Even  Lennox,  coming  every  few  days  with  a 
worn-out  look  and  touched  with  a  haggard  shadow, 
made  no  outward  change  in  her. 

"  She  does  not  look,"  said  the  elder  lady  to  her 
self,  "  like  a  neglected  woman."  And  then  the 
sound  of  the  phrase  struck  her  with  a  sharp  incred 
ulous  pain.  "  A  neglected  woman  !  "  she  repeated, 
—  "  Beck  !  " 

She  did  not  understand,  and  was  not  weak 
enough  to  ask  questions. 

Lennox  came  and  went,  and  Rebecca  gained 
upon  her  work  until  she  could  no  longer  say  she 
was  behindhand.  The  readers  of  her  letters  and 
sketches  found  them  fresh  and  sparkling,  "  as  if," 
wrote  a  friend,  "  you  were  braced  both  mentally 
and  physically  by  the  mountain  air." 

But  once  in  the  middle  of  the  night  Miss  Thorne 
awakened  with  a  mysterious  shock  to  find  the  place 
at  her  side  empty,  and  her  niece  sitting  at  the  open 
window  in  a  quiet  which  suggested  that  she  might 
not  have  moved  for  an  hour. 

She  obeyed  her  strong  first  impulse,  and  rose  and 
went  to  her. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  shook 
her  gently. 


222  LO  DUSKY. 

"  Beck  !  "  she  demanded,  "  what  are  you  do 
ing  ?  " 

When  the  girl  turned  slowly  round,  she  started 
at  the  sight  of  her  cold,  miserable  pallor. 

"I  am  doing  nothing — nothing,"  she  answered. 
"  Why  did  you  get  up  ?  It's  a  fine  night,  isn't 
it?" 

Despite  her  discretion,  Miss  Thorne  broke  down 
into  a  blunder. 

"  You  —  you  never  look  like  this  in  the  day 
time  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply  given  with  cool  deliberate- 
ness.  "  No  ;  I  would  rather  die" 

For  the  moment  she  was  fairly  incomprehensible. 
There  was  in  the  set  of  her  eye  and  the  expres 
sion  of  her  fair,  clear  face,  the  least  hint  of  dogged 
obstinacy. 

"Beck"— she  began. 

''You  ought  not  to  have  got  up,"  said  Beck. 
"  It  is  enough  to  look  '  like  this  '  at  night  when  I 
am  by  myself.  Go  back  to  bed,  if  you  please." 

Miss  Thorne  went  back  to  bed  meekly.  She  was 
at  once  alarmed  and  subdued.  She  felt  as  if  she 
had  had  a  puzzling  interview  with  a  stranger. 

In  these  days  Lennox  regarded  his  model  with 
morbid  interest.  A  subtle  change  was  perceptible 
in  her.  Her  rich  color  deepened,  she  held  herself 
more  erect,  her  eye  had  a  larger  pride  and  light. 
She  was  a  finer  creature  than  ever,  and  yet  —  she 
came  at  his  call.  He  never  ceased  to  wonder  at 


LO  DUSKY.  223 

it.  Sometimes  the  knowledge  of  his  power  stirred 
within  him  a  vast  impatience ;  sometimes  he  was 
hardened  by  it ;  but  somehow  it  never  touched  him, 
though  he  was  thrown  into  tumult  —  bound  against 
his  will.  He  could  not  say  that  he  understood  her. 
Her  very  passiveness  baffled  him  and  caused  him 
to  ask  himself  what  it  meant.  She  spoke  little, 
and  her  emotional  phases  seemed  reluctant,  but 
her  motionless  face  and  slowly  raised  eye  always 
held  a  meaning  of  their  own. 

On  an  occasion  when  he  mentioned  his  approach 
ing  departure,  she  started  as  if  she  had  received  a 
blow,  and  he  turned  to  see  her  redden  and  pale  al 
ternately,  her  face  full  of  alarm. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked  brusquely. 

"I  —  hadn't  bin  thinkin'  on  it,"  she  stammered. 
"I'd  kinder  forgot." 

He  turned  to  his  easel  again  and  painted  rapidly 
for  a  few  minutes.  Then  he  felt  a  light  touch  on 
his  arm.  She  had  left  her  seat  noiselessly  and 
stood  beside  him.  She  gave  him  a  passionate,  pro 
testing  look.  A  fire  of  excitement  seemed  to  have 
sprung  up  within  her  and  given  her  a  defiant  dar 
ing. 

"  D'ye  think  I'll  stay  here  —  when  ye're  gone  — 
like  I  did  before  ?  "  she  said. 

She  had  revealed  herself  in  many  curious  lights 
to  him,  but  no  previous  revelation  had  been  so 
wonderful  as  was  the  swift  change  of  mood  and 
bearing  which  took  place  in  her  at  this  instant.  ID 


224  LO  DUSKY. 

a  moment  she  had  melted  into  soft  tears,  her  lips 
were  tremulous,  her  voice  dropped  into  a  shaken 
whisper. 

"  I've  allers  wanted  to  go  away, "  she  said.     "  I 

—  I've  allers  said  I  would.     I  want  to  go  to  a  city 
somewhar  —  I  don't  keer  whar.     I  might  git  work 

—  I've  heerd  of  folks  as  did.     P'r'aps  some  un  ud 
hire  me  ! " 

He  stared  at  her  like  a  man  fascinated. 

"  You  go  to  the  city  alone ! "  he  said  under  his 
breath.  "  You  try  to  get  work  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  Don't  ye  know  no 
one"  — 

He  stopped  her. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  don't.  It  would  be  a  danger 
ous  business  unless  you  had  friends.  As  for  me,  I 
shall  not  be  in  America  long.  As  soon  as  I  am 
married  I  go  \yith  my  wife  to  Europe." 

He  heard  a  sharp  click  in  her  throat.  Her 
tears  were  dried,  and  she  was  looking  straight  at 
him. 

"  Are  ye  a-goin'  to  be  married  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  To  —  her  ?  "  with  a  gesture  in  the  direction  of 
the  Harneys'  cabin. 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  !  "  and  she  walked  out  of  the  room. 

He  did  not  see  her  for  three  days,  and  the 
picture  stood  still.  He  went  to  the  Harneys'  and 
found  Rebecca  packing  her  trunk. 


LO  DUSKY.  22$ 

"  We  are  going  back  to  New  York,"  she  said. 

"  Why  ?  "   he  asked. 

"  Because  our  holiday  is  over." 

Miss  Thorne  regarded  him  with  chill  severity. 

"When  may  we  expect  to  see  you?"  she  in 
quired. 

He  really  felt  half  stupefied,  —  as  if  for  the  time 
being  his  will  was  paralyzed 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered. 

He  tried  to  think  that  he  was  treated  badly  and 
coldly.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  done  nothing 
to  deserve  this  style  of  thing,  that  he  had  simply 
been  busy  and  absorbed  in  his  work,  and  that  if  he 
had  at  times  appeared  preoccupied  it  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at.  But  when  he  looked  at  Rebecca  he 
did  not  put  these  thoughts  into  words ;  he  did  not 
even  say  that  of  course  he  should  follow  them  soon, 
since  there  was  nothing  to  detain  him  but  a  sketch 
or  two  he  had  meant  to  make. 

By  night  they  were  gone  and  he  was  left  restless 
and  miserable.  He  was  so  restless  that  he  could 
not  sleep  but  wandered  down  toward  the  spring. 
He  stopped  at  the  exact  point  at  which  he  had 
stopped  on  the  night  of  his  arrival  —  at  the  top  of 
the  zigzag  little  path  leading  down  the  rocky  in 
cline.  He  stopped  because  he  heard  a  sound  of 
passionate  sobbing.  He  descended  slowly.  He 
knew  the  sound  —  angry,  fierce,  uncontrollable  — 
because  he  had  heard  it  before.  It  checked  itself 
the  instant  he  reached  the  ground.  Lodusky  lean- 
15 


226  LO  DUSKY. 

ing  against  a  projecting  rock  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  water. 

"Why  did  you  come  here?"  he  demanded,  a 
little  excitedly.  "  What  are  you  crying  for  ?  What 
has  hurt  you  ?  " 

"  Nothin',"    in  a  voice  low  and  unsteady. 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her  and  for  the  first 
time  was  touched.  She  would  not  look  at  him,  she 
was  softened  and  altered,  in  her  whole  appearance, 
by  a  new  pallor. 

"  Have  "  —  he  began,  "  have  I  ?  " 

"  You  !  "  she  cried,  turning  on  him  with  a  bitter, 
almost  wild,  gesture.  "  You  wouldn't  keer  if  I  was 
struck  dead  afore  ye  !  " 

"  Look  here,"  he  said  to  her,  with  an  agitation 
he  could  not  master.  "  Let  me  tell  you  something 
about  myself.  If  you  think  I  am  a  passably  good 
fellow  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  a  bad  fellow,  a  poor 
fellow,  an  ignoble  fellow.  You  don't  understand  ?  " 
as  she  gazed  at  him  in  bewilderment.  "No,  of 
course,  you  don't.  God  knows  I  didn't  myself 
until  within  the  last  two  weeks.  It's  folly  to  say 
such  things  to  you ;  perhaps  I  say  them  half  to 
satisfy  myself.  But  I  mean  to  show  you  that  I  am 
not  to  be  trusted.  I  think  perhaps  I  am  too  poor  a 
fellow  to  love  any  woman  honestly  and  altogether. 
I  followed  one  woman  here,  and  then  after  all  let 
another  make  me  waver"  — 

"  Another  !  "    she  faltered. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  her  almost  coldly. 


LO  DUSKY.  227 

"You,"  he  said. 

He  seemed  to  cast  the  word  at  her  and  wonder 
what  she  would  make  of  it.  He  waited  a  second 
or  so  before  he  went  on. 

"  You,  and  yet  you  are  not  the  woman  I  love 
either.  Good  God  !  What  a  villain  I  must  be.  I 
am  an  insult  to  every  woman  that  breathes.  It  is 
not  even  you  —  though  I  can't  break  from  you, 
and  you  have  made  me  despise  myself.  There  !  do 
you  know  now  —  do  you  see  now  that  I  am  not 
worth  "  — 

The  next  instant  he  started  backward.  Before 
he  had  time  for  a  thought  she  had  uttered  a  low 
cry,  and  flung  herself  down  at  his  feet. 

"  I  don't  keer,"  she  panted ;  "  I  wont  keer  fur 
nothin',  —  whether  ye're  good  or  bad,  —  only  don't 
leave  me  here  when  ye  go  away." 

A  week  later  Lennox  arose  one  morning  and  set 
about  the  task  of  getting  his  belongings  together. 
He  had  been  up  late  and  had  slept  heavily  and 
Ions:.  He  felt  exhausted  and  looked  so. 

o 

The  day  before,  his  model  had  given  him  his  last 
sitting.  The  picture  stood  finished  upon  the  easel. 
It  was  a  thorough  and  artistic  piece  of  work,  and 
yet  the  sight  of  it  was  at  times  unbearable  to  him. 
There  were  times  again,  however,  when  it  fasci 
nated  him  anew  when  he  went  and  stood  opposite 
to  it,  regarding  it  with  an  intense  gaze.  He 
scarcely  knew  how  the  last  week  had  passed.  It 


228  LO  DUSKY. 

seemed  to  have  been  spent  in  alternate  feverish 
struggles  and  reckless  abandonment  to  impulse. 
He  had  let  himself  drift  here  and  there,  he  had  at 
last  gone  so  far  as  to  tell  himself  that  the  time  had 
arrived  when  baseness  was  possible  to  him. 

"  I  don't  promise  you  an  easy  life,"  he  had  said 
to  Dusk  the  night  before.  "  I  tell  you  I  am  a  bad 
fellow,  and  I  have  lost  something  through  you  that 
I  cared  for.  You  may  wish  yourself  back  again." 

"If  you  leave  me,"  she  said,  "I'll  kill  myself!" 
and  she  struck  her  hands  together. 

For  the  moment  he  was  filled,  as  he  often  was, 
with  a  sense  of  passionate  admiration.  It  was  true 
he  saw  her  as  no  other  creature  had  ever  seen  her 
before,  that  so  far  as  such  a  thing  was  possible 
with  her,  she  loved  him  —  loved  him  with  a  fierce, 
unreserved,  yet  narrow  passion. 

He  had  little  actual  packing  to  do  —  merely  the 
collecting  of  a  few  masculine  odds  and  ends,  and 
then  his  artistic  accompaniments.  Nothing  was  of 
consequence  but  these ;  the  rest  were  tossed  to 
gether  indifferently,  but  the  picture  was  to  be  left 
until  the  last  moment,  that  its  paint  might  be  dry 
beyond  a  doubt. 

Having  completed  his  preparations  he  went  out. 
He  had  the  day  before  him,  and  scarcely  knew 
what  to  do  with  it,  but  it  must  be  killed  in  one  way 
or  another.  He  wandered  up  the  mountain  and  at 
last  lay  down  with  his  cigar  among  the  laurels. 
He  was  full  of  a  strange  excitement  which  now 
thrilled,  now  annoyed  him. 


LO  DUSKY.  229 

He  came  back  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
and  laughed  a  rather  half-hearted  laugh  at  the  ex 
cellent  Mandy's  comment  upon  his  jaded  appear 
ance. 

"  Ye  look  kinder  tuckered  out,"  she  said.  "  Ye'd 
oughtn't  ter  walked  so  fur  when  ye  was  a-gwine  off 
to-night.  Ye'd  orter  rested." 

She  stopped  the  churn-dasher  and  regarded  him 
with  a  good-natured  air  of  interest. 

"  Hev  ye  seed  Dusk  to  say  good-by  to  her  ? "  she 
added.  "  She's  went  over  the  mountain  ter  help 
Mirandy  Stillins  with  her  soap.  She  wont  be  back 
fur  a  day  or  two." 

He  went  into  his  room  and  shut  the  door.  A 
fierce  repulsion  sickened  him.  He  had  heretofore 
held  himself  with  a  certain  degree  of  inward  lofti 
ness  ;  he  had  so  condemned  the  follies  and  sins  of 
other  men,  and  here  he  found  himself  involved  in 
a  low  and  common  villainy,  in  the  deceits  which 
belonged  to  his  crime,  and  which  preyed  upon  sim 
plicity  and  ignorant  trust. 

He  went  and  stood  before  his  easel,  hot  with  a 
blush  of  self-scorn. 

"  Has  it  come  to  this  ?  "  he  muttered  through  his 
clinched  teeth  —  "  to  this  !  " 

He  made  an  excited  forward  movement ;  his  foot 
touched  the  supports  of  the  easeljarring  it  roughly ; 
the  picture  fell  upon  the  floor. 

"What?"  he  cried  out.  "Beck!  You!  Great 
God ! " 


230  LODUSKY. 

For  before  him,  revealed  by  the  picture's  fall,  the 
easel  held  one  of  the  fairest  memories  he  had  of 
the  woman  he  had  proved  himself  too  fickle  and 
slight  to  value  rightly. 

It  was  merely  a  sketch  made  rapidly  one  day 
soon  after  his  arrival  and  never  wholly  completed, 
but  it  had  been  touched  with  fire  and  feeling,  and 
the  face  looked  out  from  the  canvas  with  eyes 
whose  soft  happiness  stung  him  to  the  quick  with 
the  memories  they  brought.  He  had  meant  to 
finish  it,  and  had  left  it  upon  the  easel  that  he 
might  turn  to  it  at  any  moment,  and  it  had  re 
mained  there,  covered  by  a  stronger  rival  —  for 
gotten. 

He  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  his  brow  fell  upon 
his  hands.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  clutched  and 
dragged  backward  by  a  powerful  arm. 

When  at  last  he  rose,  he  strode  to  the  picture 
lying  upon  the  floor,  ground  it  under  his  heel,  and 
spurned  it  from  him  with  an  imprecation. 

He  was,  at  a  certain  hour,  to  reach  a  particular 
bend  in  the  road  some  miles  distant.  He  was  to 
walk  to  this  place  and  if  he  found  no  one  there, 
to  wait. 

When  at  sunset  that  evening  he  reached  it,  he 
was  half  an  hour  before  the  time  specified,  but  he 
was  not  the  first  at  the  tryst.  He  was  within 
twenty  yards  of  the  spot  when  a  figure  rose  from 
the  roots  of  a  tree  and  stood  waiting  for  him  —  the 
girl  Dusk  with  a  little  bundle  in  her  hand. 


LO  DUSKY.  231 

She  was  not  flushed  or  tremulous  with  any  hint 
of  mental  excitement ;  she  awaited  him  with  a  fine 
repose,  even  the  glow  of  the  dying  sun  having  no 
power  to  add  to  her  color,  but  as  he  drew  near  he 
saw  her  look  gradually  change.  She  did  not  so 
much  as  stir,  but  the  change  grew  slowly,  slowly 
upon  her  face,  and  developed  there  into  definite 
shape  —  the  shape  of  secret,  repressed  dread. 

"  What  is  it,"  she  asked  when  he  at  last  con 
fronted  her,  "  that  ails  ye  ?  " 

She  uttered  the  words  in  a  half  whisper,  as  if 
she  had  not  the  power  to  speak  louder,  and  he 
saw  the  hand  hanging  at  her  side  close  itself. 

"  What  is  it  —  that  ails  ye  ?  " 

He  waited  a  few  seconds  before  he  answered  her. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  see." 

She  did  look  at  him.  For  the  space  of  ten  sec 
onds  their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  each  other  in  a 
long,  bitter  look.  Then  her  little  bundle  dropped 
on  the  ground. 

"  Ye've  went  back  on  me,"  she  said  under  her 
breath  again.  "  Ye've  went  back  on  me  !  " 

He  had  thought  she  might  make  some  passion 
ate  outcry,  but  she  did  not  yet.  A  white  wrath 
was  in  her  face  and  her  chest  heaved,  but  she 
spoke  slowly  and  low,  her  hands  fallen  down  by  her 
side. 

"Ye've  went  back  on  me,"  she  said.  "An'  / 
knew  ye  would" 

He  felt  that  the  odor  of  his  utter  falseness  tainted 


232  LO  DUSKY. 

the  pure  air  about  him ;  he  had  been  false  all 
round,  —  to  himself,  to  his  love,  to  his  ideals,  — 
even  in  a  baser  way  here. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  her  with  a  bitterness  she 
did  not  understand,  "  I've  gone  back  on  you." 
Then,  as  if  to  himself,  "  I  could  not  even  reach  per 
fection  in  villainy." 

Then  her  rage  and  misery  broke  forth. 

"  Yer  a  coward !  "  she  said,  with  gasps  between 
her  words.  "  Yer  afraid  !  I'd  sooner  —  I'd  sooner 
ye'd  killed  me  — dead!" 

Her  voice  shrilled  itself  into  a  smothered  shriek, 
she  cast  herself  face  downward  upon  the  earth  and 
lay  there  clutching  amid  her  sobs  at  the  grass. 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  a  cold,  stunned  fashion. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  that  you  can 
loathe  me  as  I  loathe  myself  ?  Do  you  think  you 
can  call  me  one  shameful  name  I  don't  know  I  de 
serve  ?  If  you  can,  for  God's  sake  let  me  have  it." 

She  struck  her  fist  against  the  earth. 

"Thar  wasn't  a  man  I  ever  saw,"  she  said, 
"  that  didn't  foller  after  me,  'n'  do  fur  me,  7n'  wait 
fur  a  word  from  me.  They'd  hev  let  me  set  my 
foot  on  'em  if  I'd  said  it.  Thar  wasn't  nothin'  I 
mightn't  hev  done  —  not  nothin'.  An'  now  —  an' 
now  "  —  and  she  tore  the  grass  from  its  earth  and 
flung  it  from  her. 

"Go  on,"  he  said.    "Go  on  and  say  your  worst." 

Her  worst  was  bad  enough,  but  he  almost  ex 
ulted  under  the  blows  she  dealt  him.  He  felt  their 


LO  DUSKY .  233 

horrible  sting  a  vague  comfort.  He  had  fallen  low 
enough  surely  when  it  was  a  comfort  to  be  told 
that  he  was  a  liar,  a  poltroon,  and  a  scoundrel. 

The  sun  had  been  down  an  hour  when  it  was 
over  and  she  had  risen  and  taken  up  her  bundle. 

"  Why  don't  ye  ask  me  to  forgive  ye  ?  "  she  said 
with  a  scathing  sneer.  "  Why  don't  ye  ask  me  to 
forgive  ye  —  an'  say  ye  didn't  mean  to  do  it  ?  " 

He  fell  back  a  pace  and  was  silent  With  what 
grace  would  the  words  have  fallen  from  his  lips  ? 
And  yet  he  knew  that  he  had  not  meant  to  do  it. 

She  turned  away  and  at  a  distance  of  a  few  feet 
stopped.  She  gave  him  a  last  look  —  a  fierce  one 
in  its  contempt  and  anger,  and  her  affluence  of 
beauty  had  never  been  so  stubborn  a  fact  before. 

"  Ye  think  ye've  left  me  behind,"  she  said.  "  An' 
so  ye  hev  —  but  it  aint  fur  allers.  The  time'll 
come  when  mebbe  ye'll  see  me  ag'in." 

He  returned  to  New  York,  but  he  had  been 
there  a  week  before  he  went  to  Rebecca.  Finally, 
however,  he  awoke  one  morning  feeling  that  the 
time  had  come  for  the  last  scene  of  his  miserable 
drama.  He  presented  himself  at  the  house  and 
sent  up  his  name,  and  in  three  minutes  Rebecca 
came  to  him. 

It  struck  him  with  a  new  thrill  of  wretchedness 
to  see  that  she  wore  by  chance  the  very  dress  she 
had  worn  the  day  he  had  made  the  sketch  —  a 
pale,  pure-looking  gray,  with  a  scarf  of  white  lace 
loosely  fastened  at  her  throat.  Next,  he  saw  that 


234  LO  DUSKY. 

there  was  a  painful  change  in  her,  that  she  looked 
frail  and  worn,  as  if  she  had  been  ill.  His  first 
words  he  scarcely  heard  and  never  remembered. 
He  had  not  come  to  make  a  defense,  but  a  naked, 
bitter  confession.  As  he  made  it  low  and  monoto 
nously,  in  brief,  harsh  words,  holding  no  sparing 
for  himself,  Rebecca  stood  with  her  hand  upon 
the  mantle  looking  at  him  with  simple  directness. 
There  was  no  rebuke  in  her  look,  but  there  was 
weariness.  It  occurred  to  him  once  or  twice  and 
with  a  terribly  humiliating  pang,  that  she  was  tired 
of  him,  —  tired  of  it  all. 

"I  have  lost  you,"  he  ended.  "And  I  have  lost 
myself.  I  have  seen  myself  as  I  am,  —  a  poorer 
figure,  a  grosser  one  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  being, 
even  in  the  eyes  of  my  worst  enemy.  Henceforth, 
this  figure  will  be  my  companion.  It  is  as  if  I 
looked  at  myself  in  a  bad  glass ;  but  now,  though 
the  reflection  is  a  pitiable  one,  the  glass  is  true." 

"  You  think,"  she  said,  after  a  short  silence,  "  of 
going  away  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"  To  Europe." 

"  Oh,"  she  ejaculated,  with  a  soft,  desperate 
sound  of  pain. 

His  eyes  had  been  downcast  and  he  raised  them. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  mournfully.  "We  were  to  have 
gone  together." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "together." 


LODUSKY.  235 

Her  eyes  were  wet. 

"I  was  very  happy,"  she  said,  "for  a  little 
while." 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  But,"  she  added,  as  if  finishing  a  sentence, 
"  you  have  been  truer  to  me  than  you  think." 

"No  —  no,"  he  groaned. 

"  Yes,  truer  to  me  than  you  think  —  and  truer  to 
yourself.  It  was  I  you  loved  —  I !  There  have 
been  times  when  I  thought  I  must  give  that  up,  but 
now  I  know  I  need  not.  It  was  I.  Sometime, 
perhaps,  —  sometime,  —  not  now  "  — 

Her  voice  broke,  she  did  not  finish,  the  end  was 
a  sob.  Their  eyes  rested  upon  each  other  a  few 
seconds,  and  then  he  released  her  hand  and  went 
away. 

He  was  absent  for  two  years,  and  during  that 
time  his  friends  heard  much  good  of  him.  He  lived 
the  life  of  a  recluse  and  a  hard  worker.  He  learned 
to  know  his  own  strength,  and  taught  the  world  to 
recognize  it  also. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  year,  being  in  Paris,  he 
went  one  night  to  the  Nouvelle  Opera.  Toward  the 
close  of  the  second  act  he  became  conscious  of  a 
little  excited  stir  among  those  surrounding  him. 
Every  glass  seemed  directed  toward  a  new  arrival 
who  stood  erect  and  cool  in  one  of  the  stage-boxes. 
She  might  have  been  Cleopatra.  Her  costume  was 
of  a  creamy  satin,  she  was  covered  with  jewels,  and 


236  LO  DUSKY. 

she  stood  up  confronting  the  house,  as  it  regarded 
her,  with  sang  froid. 

Lennox  rose  hurriedly  and  left  the  place.  He 
was  glad  to  breathe  the  bitterly  cold  but  pure  night 
air.  She  had  made  no  idle  prophecy.  He  had 
seen  her  again  ! 

There  hung  upon  the  wall  of  his  private  room  a 
picture  whose  completion  had  been  the  first  work 
after  his  landing.  He  went  in  to  it  and  looked  at 
it  with  something  like  adoration. 

"  'Sometime'  "he said,  "perhaps  now,"  and  the 
next  week  he  was  on  his  way  home. 


SETH." 


HE  came  in  one  evening  at  sunset  with  the 
empty  coal-train  —  his  dull  young  face  pale 
and  heavy-eyed  with  weariness,  his  corduroy  suit 
dusty  and  travel-stained,  his  worldly  possessions 
tied  up  in  the  smallest  of  handkerchief  bundles  and 
slung  upon  the  stick  resting  on  his  shoulder  —  and 
naturally  his  first  appearance  attracted  some  atten 
tion  among  the  loungers  about  the  shed  dignified 
by  the  title  of  "  depot."  I  say  "  naturally,"  because 
arrivals  upon  the  trains  to  Black  Creek  were  so 
scarce  as  to  be  regarded  as  curiosities ;  which  again 
might  be  said  to  be  natural.  The  line  to  the  mines 
had  been  in  existence  two  months,  since  the  Eng 
lish  company  had  taken  them  in  hand  and  pushed 
the  matter  through  with  an  energy  startling  to,  and 
not  exactly  approved  by,  the  majority  of  good  East 
Tennesseeans.  After  the  first  week  or  so  of  arri 
vals  —  principally  Welsh  and  English  miners,  with 
an  occasional  Irishman  —  the  trains  had  returned 
daily  to  the  Creek  without  a  passenger;  and  ac 
cordingly  this  one  created  some  trifling  sensation. 


238  "SETff." 

Not  that  his  outward  appearance  was  particularly 
interesting  or  suggestive  of  approaching  excitement. 
He  was  only  a  lad  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  in  work 
ing  English-cut  garb,  and  with  a  short,  awkward 
figure,  and  a  troubled,  homely  face  —  a  face  so 
homely  and  troubled,  in  fact,  that  its  half-bewil 
dered  look  was  almost  pathetic. 

He  advanced  toward  the  shed  hesitatingly,  and 
touched  his  cap  as  if  half  in  clumsy  courtesy  and 
half  in  timid  appeal.  "Hesters,"  he  said,  "good- 
day  to  yo'." 

The  company  bestirred  themselves  with  one  ac 
cord,  and  to  the  roughest  and  most  laconic  gave 
him  a  brief  "  Good-day." 

"You're  English,"  said  a  good-natured  Welsh 
man,  "  ar'n't  you,  my  lad  ?  " 

"Ay,  master,"  was  the  reply:  "I'm  fro'  Lanca 
shire." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  rough  platform, 
and  laid  his  stick  and  bundle  down  in  a  slow, 
wearied  fashion. 

"  Fro'  Lancashire,"  he  repeated  in  a  voice  as 
wearied  as  his  action — "fro'  th'  Deepton  coal 
mines  theer.  You'll  know  th'  name  on  'em,  I  ha' 
no  doubt.  Th'  same  company  owns  'em  as  owns 
-hese." 

"  What !  "  said  an  outsider  —  "  Langley  an' 
'em  ? " 

The  boy  turned  himself  round  and  nodded. 
"Ay,"  he  answered  — " them.  That  was  why  I 
comn  here.  I  comn  to  get  work  fro'  —  fro'  him" 


239 

He  faltered  in  his  speech  oddly,  and  even  red 
dened  a  little,  at  the  same  time  rubbing  his  hands 
together  with  a  nervousness  which  seemed  habitual 
to  him. 

"Hester  Ed'ard,  I  mean,"  he  added  —  "th' 
young  mester  as  is  here.  I  heerd  as  he  liked 
'Merika,  an'  —  an'  I  comn." 

The  loungers  glanced  at  each  other,  and  their 
glance  did  not  mean  high  appreciation  of  the 
speaker's  intellectual  powers.  There  was  a  lack  of 
practicalness  in  such  faith  in  another  man  as  ex 
pressed  itself  in  the  wistful,  hesitant  voice. 

"  Did  he  say  he'd  give  you  work  ? "  asked  the 
first  man  who  had  questioned  him,  the  Welshman 
Evans. 

"No.  I  dunnot  think  —  I  dunnot  think  he'd 
know  me  if  he  seed  me.  Theer  wur  so  many  on 
us." 

Another  exchange  of  glances,  and  then  another 
question  :  "  Where  are  you  going  to  stay  ?  " 

The  homely  face  reddened  more  deeply,  and  the 
lad's  eyes  —  dull,  soft,  almost  womanish  eyes  — 
raised  themselves  to  the  speaker's.  *'  Do  yo'  know 
anybody  as  would  be  loikely  to  tak'  me  in  a  bit," 
he  said,  "  until  I  ha'  toime  to  earn  th'  wage  to  pay  ? 
I  wouldna  wrong  no  mon  a  penny  as  had  trusted 
me." 

There  was  manifest  hesitation,  and  then  some 
one  spoke  :  "  Lancashire  Jack  might." 

"Mester,"  said   the  lad  to  Evans,  "would  you 


240  "  SETH:" 

moind  speakin'  a  word  fur  me  ?  I  ha'  had  a  long 
tramp,  an'  I'm  fagged-loike,  an'  "  —  He  stopped 
and  rose  from  his  seat  with  a  hurried  movement. 
"  Who's  that  theer  as  is  comin'  ? "  he  demanded. 
"  Isna  it  th'  young  mester  ?  " 

The  some  one  in  question  was  a  young  man  on 
horseback,  who  at  that  moment  turned  the  corner 
and  rode  toward  the  shed  with  a  loose  rein,  allow 
ing  his  horse  to  choose  his  own  pace. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  lad  with  an  actual  tremor  in  his 
excited  voice  —  "  it's  him,  sure  enow,"  and  sank 
back  on  his  seat  again  as  if  he  had  found  himself 
scarcely  strong  enough  to  stand.  "I  —  I  ha'  not 
eaten  much  fur  two  or  three  days,"  he  said  to 
Evans. 

There  was  not  a  man  on  the  platform  who  did 
not  evince  some  degree  of  pleasure  at  the  approach 
of  the  new-comer.  The  last  warm  rays  of  the  sun, 
already  sinking  behind  the  mountains,  seemed 
rather  to  take  pride  in  showing  what  a  debonair 
young  fellow  he  was,  in  glowing  kindly  upon  his 
handsome  face  and  strong,  graceful  figure,  and 
touching  up  to  greater  brightness  his  bright  hair. 

The  face  was  one  to  be  remembered  with  a  sen 
timent  approaching  gratitude  for  the  mere  existence 
of  such  genial  and  unspoiled  good  looks,  but  the 
voice  that  addressed  the  men  was  one  to  be  loved, 
and  loved  without  stint,  it  was  so  clear  and  light- 
hearted  and  frank. 

"Boys,"  said  he,  "good-evening  to  you.  Evans, 
'f  you  could  spare  me  a  minute  "  — 


"  SETH."  241 

Evans  rose  at  once. 

"  I'll  speak  to  him"  he  said  to  the  lad  at  his  side. 
"  His  word  will  go  further  with  Lancashire  Jack 
than  mine  would."  He  went  to  the  horse's  side, 
and  stood  there  for  a  few  minutes  talking  in  an  un 
dertone,  and  then  he  turned  to  the  stranger  and 
beckoned.  "  Come  here,"  he  said. 

The  lad  took  up  his  bundle  and  obeyed  the 
summons,  advancing  with  an  awkward  almost 
stumbling  step,  suggestive  of  actual  weakness  as 
well  as  the  extremity  of  shyness.  Reaching  the 
two  men,  he  touched  his  cap  humbly,  and  stood 
with  timorous  eyes  upraised  to  the  young  man's 
face. 

Langley  met  his  glance  with  a  somewhat  puzzled 
look,  which  presently  passed  away  in  a  light  laugh. 
"  I'm  trying  to  remember  who  you  are,  my  lad,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  shall  be  obliged  to  give  it  up.  I  know 
your  face,  I  think,  but  I  have  no  recollection  of 
your  name.  I  dare  say  I  have  seen  you  often 
enough.  You  came  from  Deepton,  Evans  tells 
me." 

"  Ay,  mester,  fro'  Deepton." 

"  A  long  journey  for  a  lad  like  you  to  take 
alone,"  with  inward  pity  for  the  heavy  face. 

"  Ay,  mester." 

"  And  now  you  want  work  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  mester." 

"  Well,  well !  "  cheerily,  "  we  will  give  it  to  you. 
16 


242  "  SETH:' 

There's  work  enough,  though  it  isn't  such  as  you 
had  at  Deepton.  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Seth,  mester  —  Seth  Raynor,"  shifting  the  stick 
and  bundle  in  uneasy  eagerness  from  one  shoulder 
to  another.  "An'  I'm  used  to  hard  work,  mester. 
It  wur  na  easy  work  we  had  at  th'  Deepton  mine, 
an'  I'm  stronger  than  I  look.  It's  th'  faggedness 
as  makes  me  trembly  —  an'  hunger." 

"  Hunger  ? " 

"  I  ha'  not  tasted  sin'  th'  neet  before  last,"  shame 
facedly.  "  I  hadna  th'  money  to  buy,  an'  it  seemt 
loike  I  could  howd  out." 

"  Hold  out !  "  echoed  Langley  in  some  excite 
ment.  "That's  a  poor  business,  my  lad.  Here, 
come  with  me.  The  other  matter  can  wait, 
Evans." 

The  downcast  face  and  ungainly  figure  troubled 
him  in  no  slight  degree  as  they  moved  off  together, 
they  seemed  to  express  in  some  indescribable  fash 
ion  so  much  of  dull  and  patient  pain,  and  they 
were  so  much  at  variance  with  the  free  grandeur 
of  the  scene  surrounding  them.  It  was  as  if  a 
new  element  were  introduced  into  the  very  air  it 
self.  Black  Creek  was  too  young  yet  to  have 
known  hunger  or  actual  want  of  any  kind.  The 
wild  things  on  the  mountain  sides  had  scarcely  had 
time  to  learn  to  fear  the  invaders  of  their  haunts 
or  understand  that  they  were  to  be  driven  back 
ward.  The  warm  wind  was  fragrant  with  the  keen 
freshness  of  pine  and  cedar.  Mountain  and  forest 


« SETH."  243 

and  sky  were  stronger  than  the  human  strag 
glers  they  closed  around  and  shut  out  from  the 
world. 

"  We  don't  see  anything  like  that  in  Lancashire," 
said  Langley.  "  That  kind  of  thing  is  new  to  us, 
my  lad,  isn't  it  ?  "  with  a  light  gesture  toward  the 
mountain,  in  whose  side  the  workers  had  bur 
rowed. 

"  Ay,  mester,"  raising  troubled  eyes  to  its  grand 
eur  —  "  ivverything's  new.  I  feel  aw  lost  some- 
toimes,  an'  feared-loike." 

Langley  lifted  his  hat  from  his  brow  to  meet  a 
little  passing  breeze,  and  as  it  swept  softly  by 
he  smiled  in  the  enjoyment  of  its  coolness. 
"  Afraid  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  understand  that." 

"  I  dunnot  see  into  it  mysen',  mester.  Happen 
it's  th'  bigness,  an'  quiet,  an'  th'  lonely  look,  an' 
happen  it's  summat  wrong  in  mysen'.  I've  lived 
in  th'  cool  an'  smoke  an'  crowd  an'  work  so  long 
as  it  troubles  me  in  a  manner  to  —  to  ha'  to  look 
so  high." 

"  Does  it  ? "  said  Langley,  a  few  faint  lines 
showing  themselves  on  his  forehead.  "  That's  a 
queer  fancy.  So  high !  "  turning  his  glance  up 
ward  to  where  the  tallest  pine  swayed  its  dark 
plume  against  the  clear  blue.  "  Well,  so  it  is.  But 
you  will  get  used  to  it  in  time,"  shaking  off  a  rather 
unpleasant  sensation. 

"  Happen  so,  mester,  in  toime,"  was  the  simple 
answer ;  and  then  silence  fell  upon  them  again. 


244  "SETH." 

They  had  not  very  far  to  go.  The  houses  of  the 
miners  —  rough  shanties  hurriedly  erected  to  sup 
ply  immediate  needs  —  were  most  of  them  con 
gregated  together,  or  at  most  stood  at  short  dis 
tances  from  each  other,  the  larger  ones  signifying 
the  presence  of  feminine  members  in  a  family, 
and  perhaps  two  or  three  juvenile  pioneers  —  the 
smaller  ones  being  occupied  by  younger  miners, 
who  lived  in  couples,  or  sometimes  even  alone. 

Before  one  of  the  larger  shanties  Langley  reined 
in  his  horse.  "A  Lancashire  man  lives  here,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  am  going  to  leave  you  with  him." 

In  answer  to  his  summons  a  woman  came  to  the 
door  —  a  young  woman  whose  rather  unrespon 
sive  face  wakened  somewhat  when  she  saw  who 
waited. 

"  Feyther,"  she  called  out,  "  it's  Mester  Langley, 
an'  he's  gotten  a  stranger  wi'  him." 

"  Feyther,"  approaching  the  door,  showed  him 
self  a  burly  individual,  with  traces  of  coal-dust  in 
all  corners  not  to  be  reached  by  hurried  and  not 
too  fastidious  ablutions.  Clouds  of  tobacco-smoke 
preceded  and  followed  him,  and  much  stale  in 
cense  from  the  fragrant  weed  exhaled  itself  from 
his  well-worn  corduroys.  "  I  ha'  not  nivver  seed 
him  afore,"  he  remarked  after  a  gruff  by  no  means 
ill-natured  greeting,  signifying  the  stranger  by  a 
duck  of  the  head  in  his  direction. 

"  A  Lancashire  lad,  Janner,"  answered  Langley : 
"I  want  a  home  for  him." 


"  SETff."  245 

Janner  regarded  him  with  evident  interest,  but 
shook  his  head  dubiously.  "Ax  th'  missus,"  he 
remarked  succinctly  :  "  dunnot  ax  me." 

Langley's  good-humored  laugh  had  a  touch  of 
conscious  power  in  it.  If  it  depended  upon  "  th? 
missus "  he  was  safe  enough.  His  bright  good 
looks  and  gay  grace  of  manner  never  failed  with 
the  women.  The  most  practical  and  uncompromis 
ing  melted,  however  unwillingly,  before  his  sun 
shine,  and  the  suggestion  of  chivalric  deference 
which  seemed  a  second  nature  with  him.  So  it 
was  easy  enough  to  parley  with  "  th'  missus." 

"  A  Lancashire  lad,  Mrs.  Janner,"  he  said,  "and 
so  I  know  you'll  take  care  of  him.  Lancashire 
folk  have  a  sort  of  fellow  feeling  for  each  other,  you 
see ;  that  was  why  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 
to  leave  him  until  I  saw  him  in  good  hands  ;  and 
yours  are  good  ones.  Give  him  a  square  meal  as 
soon  as  possible,"  he  added  in  a  lower  voice  :  "  I 
will  be  accountable  for  him  myself." 

When  he  lifted  his  hat  and  rode  away,  the  group 
watched  him  until  he  was  almost  out  of  sight,  the 
general  sentiment  expressing  itself  in  every  coun 
tenance. 

"  Theer's  summat  noice  about  that  theer  young 
chap,"  Janner  remarked  with  the  slowness  of  a 
man  who  was  rather  mystified  by  the  fascination 
under  whose  influence  he  found  himself  —  "sum- 
mat  as  goes  wi'  th'  grain  loike." 

"  Ay,"  answered  his  wife,  "  so  theer  is  ;  an'  its 


246  "  SETH." 

natur'  too.        Coom  along  in,  lad,"  to   Seth,  "  an' 
ha'  summat  to  eat :   you  look  faintish." 

Black  Creek  found  him  a  wonderfully  quiet  mem 
ber  of  society,  the  lad  Seth.  He  came  and  went 
to  and  from  the  mine  with  mechanical  regularity, 
working  with  the  rest,  taking  his  meals  with  the 
Janners,  and  sleeping  in  a  small  shanty  left  vacant 
by  the  desertion  of  a  young  miner  who  had  found 
life  at  the  settlement  too  monotonous  to  suit  his 
tastes.  No  new  knowledge  of  his  antecedents  was 
arrived  at.  He  had  come  "fro'  Deepton,"  and 
that  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  matter.  In 
fact,  his  seemed  to  be  a  peculiarly  silent  nature. 
He  was  fond  of  being  alone,  and  spent  most  of  his 
spare  time  in  the  desolate  little  shanty.  Attempts 
at  conversation  appeared  to  trouble  him,  it  was  dis 
covered,  and  accordingly  he  was  left  to  himself  as 
not  worth  the  cultivating. 

"Why  does  na'  tha'  talk  more?"  demanded  Jan- 
ner's  daughter,  who  was  a  strong,  brusque  young 
woman,  with  a  sharp  tongue. 

"  I  ha'  not  gotten  nowt  to  say,"  was  the  meekly 
deprecating  response. 

Miss  Janner,  regarding  the  humble  face  with 
some  impatience,  remarkably  enough,  found  noth 
ing  to  deride  in  it,  though,  being  neither  a  beauty 
nor  in  her  first  bloom,  and  sharp  of  tongue,  as  I 
have  said,  she  was  somewhat  given  to  derision  as  a 
rule.  In  truth,  the  uncomplaining  patience  in  the 
dull,  soft  eyes  made  her  feel  a  little  uncomfortable. 


"SETff."  247 

"  1  dunnot  know  what  ails  thee,"  she  remarked 
with  unceremonious  candor,  "but  theer's  summat 
as  does." 

"  It's  novvt  as  can  be  cured,"  said  the  lad,  and 
turned  his  quiet  face  away. 

In  his  silent  fashion  he  evinced  a  certain  degree 
of  partially  for  his  host's  daughter.  Occasionally, 
after  his  meals,  he  lingered  for  a  few  moments 
watching  her  at  her  work  when  she  was  alone,  sit 
ting  by  the  fire  or  near  the  door,  and  regarding  her 
business-like  movements  with  a  wistful  air  of  won 
der  and  admiration.  And  yet  so  unobtrusive  were 
these  mute  attentions  that  Bess  Janner  was  never 
roused  to  any  form  of  resentment  of  them. 

"  Tha's  goin'  to  ha'  a  sweetheart  at  last,  my 
lass,"  was  one  of  Janner's  favorite  witticisms,  but 
Bess  bore  it  with  characteristic  coolness.  "  I'm 
noan  as  big  a  foo'  as  I  look,"  she  would  say,  "  an' 
I  dunnot  moind  him  no  more  nor  if  he  wus  a 
wench  hissen'." 

Small  as  was  the  element  of  female  society  at 
Black  Creek,  this  young  woman  was  scarcely  pop 
ular.  She  was  neither  fair  nor  fond  :  a  predom 
inance  of  muscle  and  a  certain  rough  deftness  of 
hand  were  her  chief  charms.  Ordinary  sentiment 
would  have  been  thrown  away  upon  her ;  and,  for 
tunately,  she  was  spared  it. 

"  She's  noan  hurt  wi'  good  looks,  our  Bess,"  her 
father  remarked  with  graceful  chivalrousness  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  "but  hoo  con  heave 
a'most  as  much  as  I  con,  an'  that's  summat." 


248  "SETff." 

Consequently,  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  the 
feeling  she  had  evidently  awakened  in  the  breast 
of  their  lodger  was  akin  to  the  tender  passion. 

"  Am  I  in  yo're  way  ?  "  he  would  ask  apologet 
ically;  and  the  answer  was  invariably  a  gracious 
if  curt  one  :  "No  —  no  more  than  th'  cat.  Stay 
wheer  yo'  are,  lad,  an'  make  yo'resen'  comfort 
able." 

There  came  a  change,  however,  in  the  nature  of 
their  intercourse,  but  this  did  not  occur  until  the 
lad  had  been  with  them  some  three  months.  For 
several  days  he  had  been  ailing  and  unlike  himself. 
He  had  been  even  more  silent  than  usual ;  he  had 
eaten  little,  and  lagged  on  his  way  to  and  from  his 
work ;  he  looked  thinner,  and  his  step  was  slow  and 
uncertain.  There  was  so  great  an  alteration  in  him, 
in  fact,  that  Bess  softened  toward  him  visibly.  She 
secretly  bestowed  the  best  morsels  upon  him,  and 
even  went  so  far  as  to  attempt  conversation.  "  Let 
yo're  work  go  a  bit,"  she  advised  :  "  yo're  noan  fit 
fur  it." 

But  he  did  not  give  up  until  the  third  week  of 
illness,  and  then  one  warm  day  at  noon,  Bess,  at 
work  in  her  kitchen  among  dishes  and  pans,  was 
startled  from  her  labors  by  his  appearing  at  the 
door  and  staggering  toward  her.  "  What's  up  wi' 
yo'  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  Yo'  look  loike  death." 

"  I  dunnot  know,"  he  faltered,  and  then, stagger 
ing  again,  caught  at  her  dress  with  feeble  hands. 
"  Dunnot  yo',"  he  whispered,  sinking  forward  — 
"  dunnot  yo'  let  no  one  —  come  anigh  me." 


249 

She  flung  a  strong  arm  around  him,  and  saved 
him  from  a  heavy  fall.  His  head  dropped  help 
lessly  against  her  breast. 

"He's  fainted  dead  away,"  she  said:  "  he  mun 
ha'  been  worse  than  he  thowt  fur." 

She  laid  him  down,  and,  loosening  his  clothes  at 
the  throat,  went  for  water  ;  but  a  few  minutes  after 
she  had  bent  over  him  for  the  second  time  an  ex 
clamation,  which  was  almost  a  cry,  broke  from  her. 
"Lord  ha'  mercy  !  "  she  said,  and  fell  back,  losing 
something  of  color  herself. 

She  had  scarcely  recovered  herself  even  when, 
after  prolonged  efforts,  she  succeeded  in  restoring 
animation  to  the  prostrate  figure  under  her  hands. 
The  heavy  eyes  opening  met  hers  in  piteous  appeal 
and  protest. 

"  I  —  thowt  it  wur  death  comn,"  said  the  lad. 
"  I  wur  hopin'  as  it  wur  death." 

"  What  ha'  yo'  done  as  yo'  need  wish  that  ?  " 
said  Bess ;  and  then,  her  voice  shaking  with  ex 
citement  which  got  the  better  of  her  and  forced 
her  to  reveal  herself,  she  added,  "  I've  fun'  out 
that  as  yo've  been  hidin'." 

Abrupt  and  unprefaced  as  her  speech  was,  it 
scarcely  produced  the  effect  she  had  expected  it 
would.  Her  charge  neither  flinched  nor  red 
dened.  He  laid  a  weak,  rough  hand  upon  her 
dress  with  a  feebly  pleading  touch.  "  Dunnot  yo' 
turn  agen  me,"  he  whispered  :  "  yo'  wouldna  if  yo' 
knew." 


250 

"  But  I  dunnot  know,"  Bess  answered,  a  trifle 
doggedly,  despite  her  inward  relentings. 

"  I  comn  to  yo',"  persisted  the  lad,  "  because  I 
thowt  yo'  wouldna  turn  agen  me  :  yo'  wouldna," 
patiently  again,  "if  yo'  knew." 

Gradually  the  ponderous  witticism  in  which  Jan- 
ner  had  indulged  became  an  accepted  joke  in  the 
settlement.  Bess  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  tender 
sentiment  at  last.  She  had  found  an  adorer,  and 
had  apparently  succumbed  to  his  importunities. 
Seth  spent  less  time  in  his  shanty  and  more  in  her 
society.  He  lingered  in  her  vicinity  on  all  possi 
ble  occasions,  and  seemed  to  derive  comfort  from 
her  mere  presence.  And  Bess  not  only  tolerated 
but  encouraged  him.  Not  that  her  manner  was  in 
the  least  degree  effusive :  she  rather  extended  a 
rough  protection  to  her  admirer,  and  displayed  a 
tendency  to  fight  his  battles  and  employ  her 
sharper  wit  as  a  weapon  in  his  behalf. 

"Yo'  may  get  th'  best  o'  him,"  she  said  dryly 
once  to  the  wit  of  the  Creek,  who  had  been  jocular 
at  his  expense,  "  but  yo'  conna  get  the  best  o'  me. 
Try  me  a  bit,  lad.  I'm  better  worth  yo're  mettle." 

"  What's  takken  yo',  lass  ? "  said  her  mother  at 
another  time.  "  Yo're  that  theer  soft  about  th' 
chap  as  theer's  no  makkin'  yo'  out.  Yo'  wur  niv- 
ver  loike  to  be  soft  afore,"  somewhat  testily.  "  An; 
it's  noan  his  good  looks,  neyther." 

"No,"  said  Bess  —  "it's  noan  his  good  looks." 


"  SE TH."  251 

"  Happen  it's  his  lack  on  'em,  then  ?  " 

"  Happen  it  is."  And  there  the  discussion  ended 
for  want  of  material. 

There  was  one  person,  however,  who  did  not 
join  in  the  jesting;  and  this  was  Langley.  When 
he  began  to  understand  the  matter  he  regarded  the 
two  with  sympathetic  curiosity  and  interest.  Why 
should  not  their  primitive  and  uncouth  love  develop 
and  form  a  tie  to  bind  the  homely  lives  together, 
and  warm  and  brighten  them  ?  It  may  have  been 
that  his  own  mental  condition  at  this  time  was 
such  as  would  tend  to  often  his  heart,  for  an  inno 
cent  passion,  long  cherished  in  its  bud,  had  burst 
into  its  full  blooming  during  the  months  he  had 
spent  amid  the  novel  beauty  and  loneliness,  and 
perhaps  his  new  bliss  subdued  him  somewhat.  Al 
ways  ready  with  a  kindly  word,  he  was  specially 
ready  with  it  where  Seth  was  concerned.  He  never 
passed  him  without  one,  and  frequently  reined  in 
his  horse  to  speak  to  him  at  greater  length.  Now 
and  then,  on  his  way  home  at  night,  he  stopped  at 
the  shanty's  door,  and  summoning  the  lad  detained 
him  for  a  few  minutes  chatting  in  the  odorous  even 
ing  air.  It  was  thoroughly  in  accordance  with  the 
impulses  of  his  frank  and  generous  nature  that  he 
should  endeavor  to  win  upon  him  and  gain  his  con 
fidence.  "  We  are  both  Deepton  men,"  he  would 
say,  "  and  it  is  natural  that  we  should  be  friends. 
We  are  both  alone  and  a  long  way  from  home." 

But  the  lad  was  always  timid  and  slow  of  speech. 


2^2  "  SETH." 

His  gratitude  showed  itself  in  ways  enough,  but  it 
rarely  took  the  form  of  words.  Only,  one  night  as 
the  horse  moved  away,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
bridle  and  held  it  a  moment,  some  powerful  emo 
tion  showing  itself  in  his  face,  and  lowering  his 
voice  until  it  was  almost  a  whisper.  "  Master,"  he 
said,  "  if  theer's  ivver  owt  to  be  done  as  is  hard  an' 
loike  to  bring  pain  an'  danger,  yo'll  —  yo'll  not  for 
get  me  ? " 

Langley  looked  down  at  him  with  a  mingled  feel 
ing  of  warm  pity  and  deep  bewilderment.  "  Forget 
you  ?  "  he  echoed. 

The  dullness  seemed  to  have  dropped  away  from 
the  commonplace  face  as  if  it  had  been  a  veil ;  the 
eyes  were  burning  with  a  hungry  pathos  and  fire 
and  passion ;  they  were  raised  to  his  and  held 
him  with  the  power  of  an  indescribable  anguish. 
"Dunnot  forget  as  I'm  here,"  the  voice  growing 
sharp  and  intense,  "  ready  an'  eager  an'  waitin'  fur 
th'  toime  to  come.  Let  me  do  summat  or  brave 
summat  or  suffer  summat,  for  God's  sake  !  " 

When  the  young  man  rode  away  it  was  with  a 
sense  of  weight  and  pain  upon  him.  He  was  mys 
tified.  People  were  often  grateful  to  him,  but  their 
gratitude  was  not  such  as  this  ;  this  oppressed  and 
disturbed  him.  It  was  suggestive  of  a  mental  con 
dition  whose  existence  seemed  almost  impossible. 
What  a  life  this  poor  fellow  must  have  led,  since 
the  simplest  kindliness  aroused  within  him  such 
emotions  as  this  !  "  It  is  hard  to  understand,"  he 


"  SETH."  253 

murmured  ;  "  it  is  even  a  little  horrible.  One  fan 
cies  these  duller  natures  do  not  reach  our  heights 

and  depths  of  happiness  and  pain,  and  yet 

Cathie,  Cathie,  my  dear,"  breaking  off  suddenly 
and  turning  his  face  upward  to  the  broad  free  blue 
of  the  sky  as  he  quickened  his  horse's  pace,  "  let 
me  think  of  you;  this  hurts  me." 

But  he  was  drawn  nearer  to  the  boy,  and  did  his 
best  to  cheer  and  help  him.  His  interest  in  him 
grew  as  he  saw  him  oftener,  and  there  was  not  only 
the  old  interest,  but  a  new  one.  Something  in  the 
lad's  face  —  a  something  which  had  struck  him  as 
familiar  even  at  first  —  began  to  haunt  him  con 
stantly.  He  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  impres 
sion  it  left  upon  him,  and  yet  he  never  found  him 
self  a  shade  nearer  a  solution  of  the  mystery. 

"  Raynor,"  he  said  to  him  on  one  of  the  evenings 
when  he  had  stopped  before  the  shanty,  "  I  wish  I 
knew  why  your  face  troubles  me  so." 

"  Does  it  trouble  yo',  mester  ? " 

"Yes,"  with  a  half  laugh,  "I  think  I  may  say  it 
troubles  me.  I  have  tried  to  recollect  every  lad  in 
Deepton,  and  I  have  no  remembrance  of  you." 

"  Happen  not,  mester,"  meekly.  "  I  nivver  wur 
much  noticed,  yo'  see  :  I'm  one  o'  them  as  foak  is 
more  loike  to  pass  by." 

An  early  train  arriving  next  morning  brought 
visitors  to  the  Creek  —  a  business-like  elderly  gen 
tleman  and  his  daughter,  a  pretty  girl,  with  large 
bright  eyes  and  an  innocent  rosy  face,  which  be- 


254  "SETH." 

came  rosier  and  prettier  than  ever  when  Mr.  Ed 
ward  Langley  advanced  from  the  depot  shed  with 
uncovered  head  and  extended  hand.  "  Cathie  !  " 
he  said,  when  the  first  greetings  had  been  inter 
changed,  "  what  a  delight  this  is  to  me  !  I  did  not 
hope  for  such  happiness  as  this." 

"  Father  wanted  to  see  the  mines,"  answered 
Cathie,  sweetly  demure,  "and  I — I  wanted  to  see 
Black  Creek  ;  your  letters  were  so  enthusiastic." 

"  A  day  will  suffice,  I  suppose  ? "  her  paternal 
parent  was  wandering  on  amiably.  "  A  man  should 
always  investigate  such  matters  for  himself.  I  can 
see  enough  to  satisfy  me  between  now  and  the 
time  for  the  return  train." 

"  I  cannot,"  whispered  Langley  to  Cathie  :  "  a 
century  would  not  suffice.  If  the  sun  would  but 
stand  still !  " 

The  lad  Seth  was  late  for  dinner  that  day,  and 
when  he  entered  the  house  Bess  turned  from  her 
dish-washing  to  give  him  a  sharp,  troubled  look. 
"  Art  tha'  ill  again  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Nay,"  he  answered,  "nobbit  a  bit  tired  an' 
heavy-loike." 

He  sat  down  upon  the  door-step  with  wearily- 
clasped  hands,  and  eyes  wandering  toward  the 
mountain,  whose  pine-crowned  summit  towered 
above  him.  He  had  not  even  yet  outlived  the  awe 
of  its  majesty,  but  he  had  learned  to  love  it  and 
draw  comfort  from  its  beauty  and  strength. 

"  Does  tha'  want  thy  dinner  ?  "  asked  Bess. 


"  SETH."  255 

"  No,  thank  yo',"  he  said  ;  "  I  couldna  eat." 

The  dish-washing  was  deserted  incontinently, 
and  Bess  came  to  the  door,  towel  in  hand,  her  ex 
pression  at  once  softened  and  shaded  with  discon 
tent.  "  Summat's  hurt  yo',"  she  said.  "  What  is 
it  ?  Summat's  hurt  yo'  sore." 

The  labor-roughened  hands  moved  with  their  old 
nervous  habit,  and  the  answer  came  in  an  odd, 
jerky,  half-connected  way  :  "I  dunnot  know  why  it 
should  ha'  done.  I  mun  be  mad,  or  summat.  I 
nivver  had  no  hope  nor  nothin' :  theer  nivver  wur 
no  reason  why  I  should  ha'  had.  Ay,  I  mun  be 
wrong  somehow,  or  it  wouldna  stick  to  me  i'  this 
road.  I  conna  get  rid  on  it,  an'  I  conna  feel  as  if 
I  want  to.  What's  up  wi'  me?  What's  takken 
howd  on  me  ? "  his  voice  breaking  and  the  words 
ending  in  a  sharp  hysterical  gasp  like  a  sob. 

Bess  wrung  her  towel  with  a  desperate  strength 
which  spoke  of  no  small  degree  of  tempestuous 
feeling.  Her  brow  knit  itself  and  her  lips  were 
compressed.  "  What's  happened  ?  "  she  demanded 
after  a  pause.  "  I  conna  mak'  thee  out." 

The  look  that  fell  upon  her  companion's  face 
had  something  of  shame  in  it.  His  eyes  left  the 
mountain  side  and  drooped  upon  his  clasped  hands. 
"  Theer  wur  a  lass  coom  to  look  at  'th  place  to 
day,"  he  said  —  "a  lady  lass,  wi'  her  feyther  —  an' 
him.  She  wur  aw  rosy  red  an'  fair  white,  an'  it 
seemt  as  if  she  wur  that  happy  as  her  laughin'  made 
th'  birds  mock  back  at  her.  He  took  her  up  th' 


256  "SETIf." 

mountain,  an'  we  heard  'em  both  even  high  up 
among  th'  laurels.  Th'  sound  o'  their  joy  a-floatin' 
down  from  the  height,  so  nigh  th'  blue  sky,  made 
me  sick  an'  weak-loike.  They  wur  na  so  gay  when 
they  comn  bock,  but  her  eyes  wur  shinin',  an'  so 
wur  his,  an'  I  heerd  him  say  to  her  as  *  Foak  didna 
know  how  nigh  heaven  th'  top  o'  th'  mountain 
wur.'  " 

Bess  wrung  her  towel  again,  and  regarded  the 
mountain  with  manifest  impatience  and  trouble. 
"  Happen  it'll  coom  reet  some  day,"  she  said. 

"  Reet ! "  repeated  the  lad,  as  if  mechanically. 
"  I  hadna  towd  mysen'  as  owt  wur  exactly  wrong ; 
on'y  I  conna  see  things  clear.  I  nivver  could,  an' 
th'  more  I  ax  mysen'  questions  th'  worse  it  gets. 
Wheer  —  wheer  could  I  lay  th'  blame  ?  " 

"  Th'  blame  !  "  said  Bess.  "  Coom  tha'  an'  get 
a  bite  to  eat ; "  and  she  shook  out  the  towel  with  a 
snap  and  turned  away.  "  Coom  tha,"  she  repeated  ; 
"  I  mun  get  my  work  done." 

That  night,  as  Seth  lay  upon  his  pallet  in  the 
shanty,  the  sound  of  Langley's  horse's  hoofs 
reached  him  with  an  accompaniment  of  a  clear, 
young  masculine  voice  singing  a  verse  of  some  sen 
timental  modern  carol  —  a  tender  song  ephemeral 
and  sweet.  As  the  sounds  neared  the  cabin  the 
lad  sprang  up  restlessly,  and  so  was  standing  at 
the  open  door  when  the  singer  passed.  "  Good- 
neet,  mester,"  he  said. 

The    singer   slackened  his  pace  and  turned  his 


"SETH."  257 

bright  face  toward  him  in  the  moonlight,  waving 
his  hand.  "Good-night,"  he  said,  "and  pleasant 
dreams !  Mine  will  be  pleasant  ones,  I  know. 
This  has  been  a  happy  day  for  me,  Raynor.  Good 
night." 

When  the  two  met  again  the  brighter  face  had 
sadly  changed;  its  beauty  was  marred  with  pain, 
and  the  shadow  of  death  lay  upon  it. 

Entering  Janner's  shanty  the  following  morning, 
Seth  found  the  family  sitting  around  the  breakfast- 
table  in  ominous  silence.  The  meal  stood  un 
touched,  and  even  Bess  looked  pale  and  anxious. 
All  three  glanced  toward  him  questioningly  as  he 
approached,  and  when  he  sat  down  Janner  spoke  : 
"  Hasna  tha'  heerd  th'  news  ? "  he  asked. 

"Nay,"  Seth  answered,  "  I  ha'  heerd  nowt." 

Bess  interposed  hurriedly :  "  Dunnot  yo'  fear 
him,  feyther,"  she  said.  "  Happen  it  isna  so  bad, 
after  aw.  Four  or  five  foak  wur  takken  down  ill 
last  neet,  Seth,  an'  the  young  mester  wur  among 
'em  ;  an'  theer's  them  as  says  it's  cholera." 

It  seemed  as  if  he  had  not  caught  the  full  mean 
ing  of  her  words ;  he  only  stared  at  her  in  a 
startled,  bewildered  fashion.  "  Cholera  !  "  he  re 
peated  dully. 

"  Theer's  them  as  knows  it's  cholera,"  said  Jan 
ner,  with  gloomy  significance.  "  An'  if  it's  chol 
era,  it's  death;"  and  he  let  his  hand  fall  heavily 
upon  the  table. 

"  Ay,"  put  in  Mrs.  Janner  in  a  fretful  wail,  "  fur 
17 


258  "SETH." 

they  say  as  it's  worse  i'  these  parts  than  it  is  i' 
England  —  th'  heat  mak's  it  worse  —  an'  here  we 
are  i'  th'  midst  o'  th'  suminer-toime,  an'  theer's  no 
knowin'  wheer  it'll  end.  I  wish  tha'cl  takken  my 
advice,  Janner,  an'  stayed  i'  Lancashire.  Ay,  I 
wish  we  wur  safe  at  home.  Better  less  wage  an' 
more  safety.  Yo'd  nivver  ha'  coom  if  yo'd  listened 
to  me." 

"  Howd  thy  tongue,  mother,"  said  Bess,  but  the 
words  were  not  ungently  spoken,  notwithstanding 
their  bluntness.  "Dunnot  let  us  mak'  it  worse 
than  it  need  be.  Seth,  lad,  eat  thy  breakfast." 

But  there  was  little  breakfast  eaten.  The  fact 
was,  that  at  the  first  spreading  of  the  report  a  panic 
had  seized  upon  the  settlement,  and  Janner  and  his 
wife  were  by  no  means  the  least  influenced  by  it. 
A  stolidly  stubborn  courage  upheld  Bess,  but  even 
she  was  subdued  and  somewhat  awed. 

"  I  nivver  heerd  much  about  th'  cholera,"  Seth 
said  to  her  after  breakfast.  "  Is  this  here  true, 
this  as  thy  feyther  says  ?  " 

"  I  dunnot  know  fur  sure,"  Bess  answered  gravely, 
"  but  it's  bad  enow." 

"  Coom  out  wi'  me  into  th'  fresh  air,"  said  the 
lad,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  sleeve  :  "  1  mun  say 
a  word  or  so  to  thee."  And  they  went  out  to 
gether. 

There  was  no  work  done  in  the  mine  that  clay. 
Two  or  three  new  cases  broke  out,  and  the  terror 
spread  itself  and  grew  stronger.  In  fact,  Black 


"SETH."  259 

Creek  scarcely  comported  itself  as  stoically  as 
might  have  been  expected.  A  messenger  was  dis 
patched  to  the  nearest  town  for  a  doctor,  and  his 
arrival  by  the  night  train  was  awaited  with  excited 
impatience. 

When  he  came,  however,  the  matter  became 
worse.  He  had  bad  news  to  tell  himself.  The 
epidemic  had  broken  out  in  the  town  he  had  left, 
and  great  fears  were  entertained  by  its  inhabitants. 
"  If  you  had  not  been  so  entirely  thrown  on  your 
own  resources,"  he  said,  "  I  could  not  have  come." 

A  heavy  enough  responsibility  rested  upon  his 
shoulders  during  the  next  few  weeks.  He  had  lit 
tle  help  from  the  settlement.  Those  who  were  un- 
stricken  looked  on  at  the  progress  of  the  disease 
with  helpless  fear  :  few  indeed  escaped  a  slight 
attack,  and  those  who  did  were  scarcely  more  use 
ful  than  his  patients.  In  the  whole  place  he  found 
only  two  reliable  and  unterrified  assistants. 

His  first  visit  was  to  a  small  farm-house  round 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  and  a  short  distance  from 
the  mine.  There  he  found  the  family  huddled  in  a 
back  room  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep,  and  in 
the  only  chamber  a  handsome,  bright-haired  young 
fellow  lying  upon  the  bed  with  a  pinched  and  omi 
nous  look  upon  his  comely  face.  The  only  person 
with  him  was  a  lad  roughly  clad  in  miner's  clothes 
—  a  lad  who  stood  by  chafing  his  hands,  and  who 
turned  desperate  eyes  to  the  door  when  it  opened. 
"  Yo're  too  late,  master,"  he  said  —  "yo're  too 
late." 


260  -'SETff." 

But  young  as  he  was  —  and  he  was  a  very  young 
man  —  the  doctor  had  presence  of  mind  and  en 
ergy,  and  he  flung  his  whole  soul  and  strength  into 
the  case.  The  beauty  and  solitariness  of  his  pa 
tient  roused  his  sympathy  almost  as  if  it  had  been 
the  beauty  of  a  woman  ;  he  felt  drawn  toward  the 
stalwart,  helpless  young  figure  lying  upon  the  hum 
ble  couch  in  such  apparent  utter  loneliness.  He 
did  not  count  much  upon  the  lad  at  first  —  he 
seemed  too  much  bewildered  and  shaken  —  but  it 
was  not  long  before  he  changed  his  mind.  "You 
are  getting  over  your  fear,"  he  said. 

"It  wasna  fear,  mester,"  was  the  answer  he  re 
ceived  •  "or  at  least  it  wasna  fear  for  mysen'." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Seth  Raynor,  mester.  Him  an'  me,"  with  a 
gesture  toward  the  bed,  "comn  from  th'  same 
place.  Th'  cholera  couldna  fear  me  fro'  him  —  nor 
nowt  else  if  he  wur  i'  need." 

So  it  was  Seth  Raynor  who  watched  by  the  bed 
side,  and  labored  with  loving  care  and  a  patience 
which  knew  no  weariness,,  until  the  worst  was  over 
and  Langley  was  among  the  convalescent. 

"  The  poor  fellow  and  Bess  Janner  were  my  only 
stay,"  the  young  doctor  was  wont  to  say.  "  Only 
such  care  as  his  would  have  saved  you,  and  you 
had  a  close  race  of  it  as  it  was." 

During  the  convalescence  nurse  and  invalid  were 
drawn  together  with  a  stronger  tie  through  every 
hour.  Wearied  and  weak,  Langley 's  old  interest 


"  SETH."  26l 

in  the  lad  became  a  warm  affection.  He  could 
scarcely  bear  to  lose  sight  of  the  awkward  boyish 
figure,  and  never  rested  so  completely  as  when  it 
was  by  his  bedside. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  dear  fellow,"  he  would  say, 
"  and  let  me  hold  it.  I  shall  sleep  better  for  know 
ing  you  are  near  me." 

He  fell  asleep  thus  one  morning,  and  awakened 
suddenly  to  a  consciousness  of  some  new  presence 
in  the  room.  Seth  no  longer  sat  in  the  chair  near 
his  pillow,  but  stood  a  little  apart  ;  and  surely  he 
would  have  been  no  lover  if  the  feeble  blood  had 
not  leaped  in  his  veins  at  the  sight  of  the  face 
bending  over  him  —  the  innocent,  fair  young  face 
which  had  so  haunted  his  pained  and  troubled 
dreams.  "  Cathie  !  "  he  cried  out  aloud. 

The  girl  fell  upon  her  knees  and  caught  his  ex 
tended  hand  with  a  passionate  little  gesture  of  love 
and  pity.  "  I  did  not  know,"  she  poured  forth  in 
hurried,  broken  tones.  "  I  have  been  away  ever 
since  the  sickness  broke  out  at  home.  They  sent 
me  away,  and  I  only  heard  yesterday  —  Father, 
tell  him,  for  I  cannot." 

He  scarcely  heard  the  more  definite  explanation, 
he  was  at  once  so  happy  and  so  fearful. 

"  Sweetheart,"  he  said,  "  I  can  scarcely  bear  to 
think  of  what  may  come  of  this ;  and  yet  how 
blessed  it  is  to  have  you  near  me  again  !  The  dan 
ger  for  me  is  all  over :  even  your  dear  self  could 
not  have  cared  for  me  more  faithfully  than  I  have 
been  cared  for.  Ray  nor  there  has  saved  my  life." 


2(32  "  SETH." 

But  Cathie  could  only  answer  with  a  piteous,  re 
morseful  jealousy:  "Why  was  it  not  I  who  saved 
it  ?  why  was  it  not  I  ?  " 

And  the  place  where  Seth  had  stood  waiting  was 
vacant,  for  he  had  left  it  at  the  sound  of  Langley's 
first  joyous  cry.  When  he  returned  an  hour  or  so 
later,  the  more  restful  look  Langley  had  fancied  he 
had  seen  on  his  face  of  late  had  faded  out :  the  old 
unawakened  heaviness  had  returned.  He  was 
nervous  and  ill  at  ease,  shrinking  and  conscious. 

"  I've  comn  to  say  good-neet  to  yo',"  he  said  hes 
itatingly  to  the  invalid.  "  Th'  young  lady  says  as 
she  an'  her  feyther  will  tak'  my  place  a  bit.  I'll 
coom  i'  th'  mornin'." 

"You  want  rest,"  said  Langley;  "you  are  tired, 
poor  fellow ! " 

"  Ay,"  quietly,  "  I'm  tired  ;  an'  the  worst  is  over, 
yo'  see,  an'  she's  here,"  with  a  patient  smile.  "  Yo' 
wunnot  need  me,  and  theer's  them  as  does." 

From  that  hour  his  work  at  this  one  place  seemed 
done.  For  several  days  he  made  his  appearance 
regularly  to  see  if  he  was  needed,  and  then  his 
visits  gradually  ended.  He  had  found  a  fresh  field 
of  labor  among  the  sufferers  in  the  settlement  itself. 
He  was  as  faithful  to  them  as  he  had  been  to  his 
first  charge.  The  same  unflagging  patience  showed 
itself,  the  same  silent  constancy  and  self-sacrifice. 
Scarcely  a  man  or  woman  had  not  some  cause  to 
remember  him  with  gratitude,  and  there  was  not 


"SETH."  263 

one  of  those  who  had  jested  at  and  neglected  him 
but  thought  of  their  jests  and  neglect  with  secret 
shame. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  they  missed 
him  from  among  them.  If  he  was  not  at  one  house 
he  was  surely  at  another,  it  appeared  for  some  time  ; 
but  when,  after  making  his  round  of  visits,  the  doc 
tor  did  not  find  him,  he  became  anxious.  He  might 
be  at  Janner's  ;  but  he  was  not  there,  nor  among 
the  miners,  who  had  gradually  resumed  their  work 
as  the  epidemic  weakened  its  strength  and  their 
spirits  lightened.  Making  these  discoveries  at 
nightfall,  the  doctor  touched  up  his  horse  in  some 
secret  dread.  He  had  learned  earlier  than  the  rest 
to  feel  warmly  toward  this  simple  co-laborer.  "  Per 
haps  he's  gone  out  to  pay  Langley  a  visit,"  he  said  : 
"  I'll  call  and  see.  He  may  have  stopped  to  have 
a  rest." 

But  before  he  had  passed  the  last  group  of  cabins 
he  met  Langley  himself,  who  by  this  time  was  well 
enough  to  resume  his  place  in  the  small  world,  and, 
hearing  his  story,  Langley's  anxiety  was  greater 
than  his  own.  "  I  saw  him  last  night  on  my  way 
home,"  he  said.  "  About  this  time,  too,  for  I  re 
member  he  was  sitting  in  the  moonlight  at  the  door 
of  his  shanty.  We  exchanged  a  few  words,  as  we 
always  do,  and  he  said  he  was  there  because  he 
was  not  needed,  and  thought  a  quiet  night  would 
do  him  good.  Is  it  possible  no  one  has  seen  him 
since  ?  "  in  sudden  alarm. 


264 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  his  companion. 

Overwhelmed  by  a  mutual  dread,  neither  spoke 
until  they  reached  the  shanty  itself.  There  was  no 
sign  of  human  life  about  it :  the  door  stood  open, 
and  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  was  the  rustle  of 
the  wind  whispering  among  the  pines  upon  the 
mountain  side.  Both  men  flung  themselves  from 
their  horses  with  loudly-beating  hearts. 

"  God  grant  he  is  not  here  !  "  uttered  Langley. 
"  God  grant  he  is  anywhere  else  !  The  place  is  so 
drearily  desolate." 

Desolate  indeed !  The  moonbeams  streaming 
through  the  door  threw  their  fair  light  upon  the 
rough  boards  and  upon  the  wails,  and  upon  the 
quiet  figure  lying  on  the  pallet  in  one  of  the  cor 
ners,  touching  with  pitying  whiteness  the  homely 
face  upon  the  pillow  and  the  hand  that  rested 
motionless  upon  the  floor. 

The  doctor  went  down  on  his  knees  at  the  pal 
let's  side,  and  thrust  his  hand  into  the  breast  of 
the  coarse  garments  with  a  half-checked  groan. 

"  Asleep  ?  "  broke  from  Langley's  white  lips  in  a 
desperate  whisper.  "  Not  —  not  "  — 

"  Dead  !  "  said  the  doctor  —  "  dead  for  hours  !  " 
There  was  actual  anguish  in  his  voice  as  he  uttered 
the  words,  but  another  element  predominated  in 
the  exclamation  which  burst  from  him  scarcely  a 
second  later.  "  Gcod  God!"  he  cried  —  "good 
God  !  " 

Langley   bent    down    and    caught    him    almost 


"SETH."  265 

fiercely  by  the  arm  :  the  exclamation  jarred  upon 
him.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded,  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  It  is  —  a  woman  !  " 

Even  as  they  gazed  at  each  other  in  speechless 
questioning  the  silence  was  broken  in  upon.  Swift, 
heavy  footsteps  neared  the  door,  crossed  the  thresh 
old,  and  Janner's  daughter  stood  before  them. 

There  was  no  need  for  questioning.  One  glance 
told  her  all.  She  made  her  way  to  the  moonlit 
corner,  pushed  both  aside  with  rough  strength,  and 
knelt  down.  "I  might  ha'  knowed,"  she  said  with 
helpless  bitterness  —  "I  might  ha'  knowed  ;  "  and 
she  laid  her  face  against  the  dead  hand  :n  a  sud 
den  passion  of  weeping.  "  I  might  ha'  knowed, 
Jinny  lass,"  she  cried,  but  I  didna.  It  was  loike 
a\\  th'  rest  as  tha'  should  lay  thee  down  an'  die 
loike  this.  Tha'  wast  alone  aw  along,  an'  tha'  wast 
alone  at  th'  last.  But  dimnot  blame  me,  poor  lass. 
Nay,  I  know  tha'  wiltna." 

The  two  men  stood  apart,  stirred  by  an  emotion 
too  deep  for  any  spoken  attempt  at  sympathy.  She 
scarcely  seemed  10  see  them:  she  seemed  to  rec 
ognize  no  presence  but  that  of  the  unresponsive 
figure  upon  its  lowly  couch.  She  spoke  to  it  as  if 
it  had  been  a  living  thing,  her  voice  broken  and 
tender,  stroking  the  hair  now  and  then  with  a 
touch  all  womanly  and  loving.  "  Yo'  were  nigher 
to  me  than  most  foak,  Jinny,"  she  said  ;  "  an'  tha' 
trusted  me,  I  know." 


266  "SETff." 

They  left  her  to  her  grief  until  at  last  she  grew 
calmer  and  her  sobs  died  away  into  silence.  Then 
she  rose  and  approaching  Langley.  who  stood  at 
the  door,  spoke  to  him,  scarcely  raising  her  tear- 
stained  eyes.  "  I  ha'  summat  to  tell  yo',  an'  sum- 
mat  to  ax  yo',''  she  said,  "  an'  I  mun  tell  it  to  yo' 
alone.  Will  yo'  coom  out  here  ?  " 

He  followed  her,  wondering  and  sad.  His  heart 
was  heavy  with  the  pain  and  mystery  the  narrow 
walls  inclosed.  When  they  paused  a  few  yards 
from  the  house,  the  one  face  was  scarcely  more  full 
of  sorrow  than  the  other,  only  that  the  woman's 
was  wet  with  tears.  She  was  not  given  to  many 
words,  Bess  Janner,  and  she  wasted  few  in  the 
story  she  had  to  tell.  "  Yo'  know  th'  secret  as  she 
carried,"  she  said,  "or  I  wouldna  tell  yo'  even 
now  j  an'  now  I  tell  it  yo'  that  she  may  carry  the 
secret  to  her  grave,  an'  ha'  no  gossiping  tongue  to 
threep  at  her.  I  dun  not  want  foak  starin'  an'  won- 
derin'  an'  makkin'  talk.  She's  borne  enow." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  whether  you  tell  me  the 
story  or  not,"  said  Langley.  "We  will  keep  it  as 
sacred  as  you  have  done." 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  seemingly  pondering 
with  herself  before  she  answered  him.  "Ay,"  she 
said,  ''but  I  ha'  another  reason  behind.  I  want 
summat  fro'  yo' :  I  want  yo're  pity.  Happen  it 
moight  do  her  good  even  now,"  She  did  not  look 
at  him  as  she  proceeded,  but  stood  with  her  face  a 
little  turned  away  and  her  eyes  resting  upon  the 


"SETff."  267 

shadow  on  the  mountain.  "  Theer  wur  a  lass  as 
worked  at  the  Deepton  mines,"  she  said —  "a  lass 
as  had  a  weakly  brother  as  worked  an'  lodged  wi' 
her.  Her  name  wur  Jinny,  an'  she  wur  quiet  and 
plain-favored.  Theer  wur  other  wenches  as  wur 
weel-lookin',  but  she  wasna  ;  theer  wur  others  as 
had  homes,  and  she  hadna  one  ;  theer  wur  plenty 
as  had  wit  an'  sharpness,  but  she  hadna  them 
neyther.  She  wur  nowt  but  a  desolate,  homely  lass, 
as  seemt  to  ha'  no  place  i'  th'  world,  an'  yet  wur 
tender  and  weak-hearted  to  th'  core.  She  wur  allus 
longin'  fur  summat  as  she  wur  na  loike  to  get ;  an' 
she  nivver  did  get  it,  fur  her  brother  wasna  one  as 
cared  fur  owt  but  his  own  doin's.  But  theer  were 
one  among  aw  th'  rest  as  nivver  passed  her  by,  an' 
he  wur  the  mester's  son.  He  wur  a  bright,  hand 
some  chap,  as  won  his  way  ivverywheer,  an'  had  a 
koincl  word  or  a  laugh  fur  aw.  So  he  gave  th'  lass  a 
smile,  an'  did  her  a  favor  now  and  then  —  loike  as 
not  without  givin'  it  more  than  a  thowt  —  until  she 
learned  to  live  on  th'  hope  o'  seein'  him.  An', 
bein'  weak  an'  tender,  it  grew  on  her  fro'  day  to 
day,  until  it  seemt  to  give  th'  strength  to  her  an' 
tak'  it  both  i'  one." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  Langley  here.  "  Does 
tha'  see  owt  now,  as  I'm  gotten  this  fur?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  his  agitation  almost  master 
ing  him.  "  And  now  I  have  found  the  lost  face 
that  haunted  me  so." 


268  "SETH." 

"Ay,"  said  Bess,  "it  was  hers  ;"  and  she  hurried 
on  huskily :  "  When  you  went  away  she  couldna 
abide  the  lonesomeness,  an'  so  one  clay  she  said  to 
her  brother,  '  Dave,  let  us  go  to  th'  new  mine  wheer 
M  ster  Ed'arcl  is  ; '  an'  him  bein'  allus  ready  fur  a 
move,  they  started  out  together.  But  on  th'  way 
th'  lad  took  sick  and  died  sudden,  an'  Jinny  wur 
left  to  hersen'.  An'  then  she  seed  new  trouble. 
She  wur  beset  wi'  danger  as  she'd  nivver  thowt  on, 
an'  before  long  she  foun'  out  as  women  didna  work 
o'  this  side  o'  the  sea  as  they  did  o'  ours.  So  at 
last  she  wur  driv'  upon  a  strange-loike  plan.  It 
sounds  wild,  happen,  but  it  wasna  so  wild  after  aw. 
Her  bits  of  clothes  giv'  out  an'  she  had  no  money ; 
an'  theer  wur  Dave's  things.  She'd  wore  the  loike 
at  her  work  i'  Deepton,  an'  she  made  up  her  moind 
to  wear  'em  agen.  Yo'  didna  know  her  when  she 
coom  here,  an'  no  one  else  guessed  at  th'  truth. 
She  didna  expect  nowt,  yo'  see ;  she  on'y  wanted 
th'  comfort  o'  hearin'  th'  voice  she'd  longed  an' 
hungered  fur ;  an'  here  wur  wheer  she  could  hear 
it.  When  I  foun'  her  out  by  accident,  she  towd 
me,  an'  sin'  then  we  've  kept  th'  secret  together. 
Do  you  guess  what  else  theer's  been  betwixt  us, 
mester  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  he  answered.  "  God  forgive  me 
for  my  share  in  her  pain  !  " 

"Nay,"  she  returned,  "it  was  no  fault  o'  thine. 
She  nivver  had  a  thowt  o'  that.  She  had  a  patient 


"SETH."  269 

way  wi'  her,  had  Jinny,  an'  she  bore  her  trouble 
better  than  them  as  hopes.  She  didna  ax  nor  hope 
neyther ;  an'  when  theer  coom  fresh  hurt  to  her  she 
wur  ready  an'  waitin',  knowin'  as  it  moight  comn 
ony  clay.  Happen  tlv  Lord  knows  what  life  wur 
give  her  fur  —  I  clunnot,  but  it's  ower  now  —  an' 
happen  she  knows  hersen'.  I  hurried  here  to-neet," 
she  added,  battling  with  a  sob,  "  as  soon  as  I  heercl 
as  she  was  missin'.  Th'  truth  struck  to  my  heait, 
an'  I  thought  as  I  should  be  here  first,  but  I  vvasna. 
I  ha'  not  gotten  no  more  to  say." 

They  went  back  to  the  shanty,  and  with  her  own 
hands  she  did  for  the  poor  clay  the  last  service 
it  would  need,  Langley  and  his  companion  waiting 
the  while  outside.  When  her  task  was  at  an  end 
she  came  to  them,  and  this  time  it  was  Langley 
who  addressed  himself  to  her.  "  May  I  go  in  ?  " 
he  asked. 

She  bent  her  head  in  assent,  and  without  speak 
ing  he  left  them  and  entered  the  shanty  alone.  The 
moonlight,  streaming  in  as  before,  fell  upon  the 
closed  eyes,  and  hands  folded  in  the  old,  old 
fashion  upon  the  fustian  jacket :  the  low  whisper  of 
the  pines  crept  downward  like  a  sigh.  Kneeling 
beside  the  pallet,  the  young  man  bent  his  head  and 
touched  the  pale  forehead  with  reverent  lips.  "  God 
bless  you  for  your  love  and  faith,"  he  said,  "and 
give  you  rest  !  " 

And   when  he    rose    a   few   minutes    later,    and 


2/0  "SETIL" 

saw  that  the  little  dead  flower  he  had  worn  had 
dropped  from  its  place  and  lay  upon  the  pulseless 
breast,  he  did  not  move  it,  but  turned  away  and 
left  it  resting  there. 


The   best   original  novel  that  has  appeared  in  this  country  for    many 
years.'" — PHILA.  PRESS. 


THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

BY  FRANCES   HODGSON   BURNETT. 


PRESS    NOTICES. 

"The  publication  of  a  story  like  '  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's'  is  a  red-letter  day 
in  the  world  of  literature."  —  N.  Y.  Herald. 

"  We  know  of  no  more  powerful  work  from  a  woman's  hand  in  the 

English  language,  not  even  excepting  the  best  of  George  Eliot's."  —  Boston 
Transcript. 

"  It  creates  a  sensation  among  book  readers."  —  Hartford  Times. 

"  The  novel  is  one  of  the  very  best  of  recent  fictions,  and  the  novelist  is 
heieafter  a  person  of  rank  and  consideration  in  letters."—  Hartford  Cour- 

ani . 

"  I'he  author  might  have  named  her  book  '  Joan  Lowrie,  Lady,'  and  it  is 
worthy  a  place  in  the  family  library  beside  Miss  Muloch's  'John  Halifax, 
Gentleman,'  and  G-eorge  Eliot's  '  Adam  Bede.'  "  —  Boston  Watchman. 

"  The  story  is  one  of  mark,  and  let  none  of  our  readers  who  enjoy  the  truest 
artistic  work  overlook  it."  —  Congregationalist. 

"  Is  written  with  great  dramatic  power."  — N.  Y.  Observer. 

"  Of  absorbing  interest,  and  is  as  unique  in  its  style  and  its  incidents  as  it 
is  entertaining."  —  Worcester  Spy. 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  English  pit  life,  and  graphic,  absorbing,  irresistible,  from 
first  page  to  last."  —  Boston  Commonwealth. 

"  It  is  a  healthy,  vigorous  story,  such  as  would  find  a  warm  welcome  in 
any  household."  —  Baltimore  Bulletin. 

"  Unlike  most  of  the  current  works  of  fiction,  this  novel  is  a  study.  It  can 
not  be  sifted  at  a  glance,  nor  fully  understood  at  a  single  reading,  so  fruitful 
and  comprehensive  is  its  word  and  character  painting."  —  Boston  Post 

Price,  paper  covers,  go  cents  ;  or  $T.^O  extra  cloth. 

SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG,    &    CO. 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


Just  Published: 

DR.  HOLLAND'S    NEW    NOVEL. 

"  NICHOLAS  MINTURN  places  its  author  in  the  van  of 
American  Novelists.  It  is  the  most  real  novel,  or  rather 
life-story,  yet  produced  by  any  American  writer.'1''  —  DR. 
SHELTON  MACKENZIE,  in  The  Philadelphia  Press. 


NICHOLAS    MINTURN. 

A  Study  in  a  Story.  By  DR.  J.  G.  HOLLAND,  author  of  "  Seven- 
oaks,"  "  Arthur  Bonnicastle,"  etc.,  etc.  With  eleven  full-page 
Illustrations,  by  C.  S.  REINHART.  i  vol.,  large  izmo,  cloth, 


OPINIONS    OF  THE   PRESS. 

"  For  us  J.  G.  Holland  is  the  American  novelist,  and  we  never  read  his  sto 
ries  without  learning  more  about  human  nature.  Whether  read  as  a  story  or 
study  'Nicholas  Minturn'  is  equally  and  deeply  interesting." — Waterbury 
Evening  A  merican. 

"  The  book  should  be  read  by  every  one  who  desires  to  be  thoroughly  posted 
on  the  best  thought  concerning  a  great  social  problem." — New  Bedford 
Mercury. 

"  As  a  fiction  it  is  one  of  the  best  of  its  author's,  with  very  well  portrayed 
characters."  —  Boston  Ziorfs  Herald. 

"  The  plot  is  interesting,  the  incidents  startling,  and  in  fact  there  is  not  a 
dull  page  from  beginning  to  end."  —  Lowell  Courier. 

"  Dr.  Holland  has  written  nothing  that  should  receive  more  cordial  atten 
tion  than  this  excellent  and  entertaining  novel." — Portland  Press. 

"  Dr.  J.  G.  Holland,  in  '  Nicholas  Minturn,'  gives  fresh  proof  that,  though 
so  pro'ific  as  an  author,  he  writes  nothing  carelessly ;  his  mental  resources 
increase  rather  than  diminish,  and  so  it  is  that  every  fresh  work  from  his  pen 
adds  to  his  popularity."  —  Boston  Contributor. 

"  To  all  who  read  '  Nicholas  Minturn  '  we  can  safely  promise  a  rich  literary 
treat."  —  Phila.  Saturday  Evening  Post. 

"  Ft  is  unquestionably  Dr.  Holland's  ablest  production.  The  characters  nre 
sketched  with  a  master's  hand,  the  incidents  are  realistic,  the  progress  of  events 
rapid,  and  the  tone  pure  and  healthy." —  Rock  Island  Union. 

"  The  healthy  moral  tone  that  pervades  this  author's  books  makes  them  wel 
come  in  the  homes  of  the  best  American  people." — N.  E.  Journal  of  Edu 
cation. 

"  Dr.  Holland's  pen  has  given  nothing  to  the  public  that  can  be  so  widely 
serviceable  in  individual  and  social  reformation  "  —  Easton  Free  Press. 

*#*  This  book  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  prepaid, 
up  ot  i  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

SCRIBNER,    ARMSTRONG,    &    CO. 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK, 


A  New  Life  of  Charlotte  Bront'e. 

CHARLOTTE   BRONTE 

A  MONOGRAPH. 
BY  T.  WEMYSS   REID. 

With  Illustrations  and  Facsimile  of  a  Characteristic  Letter. 
i  volume,  ismo,  cloth,  $1.30. 


Estimate  of  the  London  Standard. 

"  This  is  no  ordinary  work,  and  we  have  reason  to  believe  will  produce  no 
ordinary  sensation  in  the  literary  world.  Mr.  Reid  has  been  able,  by  the  let 
ters  of  her  dearest  and  most  intimate  friends,  and  from  other  sources,  to  pene 
trate  into  the  inmost  recesses,  not  merely  of  his  heroine's  home  life,  but  into  her 
very  heart  life,  if  we  may  so  speak,  as  revealed  in  her  private  correspondence, 
where  she  spoke  heart  to  heart  with  those  she  loved  with  so  much  of  tenderness 
and  truth." 


THE  AMERICAN   PRESS. 

"  We  regard  Mr.  Reid's  work  as  something  more  than  a  supplement  and  cor 
rection  of  Mrs.  Gaskell's.  It  goes  beyond  it  in  clearness  of  psychological 
analysis  and  in  vividness  of  style,  and  is,  on  the  whole,  we  doubt  not,  a  much 
more  accurate  biography."  —  Churchman. 

"  Mr.  Reid's  volume  should  by  all  means  be  read  by  all  who  take  an  interest 
in  Charlotte  Bronte.  It  presents  us  with  some  new  facts  in  that  strange  life, 
and  lets  in  a  good  deal  of  new  light  upon  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  char 
acters  in  English  literature."  —  Hartford  Times. 

"The  book  is  a  delightful  piece  of  careful,  conscientious  biographical  work, 
and  sheds  new  light  upon  the  career  and  qualities  of  one  of  whom  Harriet  Mar- 
tineau  not  extravagantly  said :  'In  her  vocation  she  had,  in  addition  to  the 
deep  intuitions  of  a  gifted  woman,  the  strength  of  a  man,  the  patience  of  a 
hero,  and  the  conscientiousness  of  a  saint.'"  —  N.  Y.  Evening  Mail. 

*#*  The  above  book  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent,  ex 
press  charges  paid,  tipon  receipt  of  the  price  by  the  Publishers, 

SCRIBNER,   ARMSTRONG,   &   CO. 

743  AND  745  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


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